Light & Water Ch. 01

"Nothing is simpler than to lose oneself in Venice; and nothing is more fun than to be in this labyrinth without a Minotaur, as a Theseus without an Ariadne's thread."

Jean-Louis Vaudoyer

Venice is sinking, so they say. The same They that mutter darkly about climate change and super volcanoes, but are reticent on the whole subject of exactly what We should do about it (it being Our responsibility, not Theirs). It was something Dan thought about as he looked out of the hotel window, across the terracotta-tinted wedding cake rooftops that led down to San Marco, and the vaulted beauty of the Palazzo Ducale in the dusk.

There were the canals, of course. You couldn't escape them, because they changed the very light of the city – made it ethereal and set it apart from all other places. When night came, and the lanterns lit up in the gondolas (more halogen lamps now, not as romantic as the old-fashioned ones, but more safety conscious), it was as if the boundaries of space, time and culture, life and death, were crossed. The Grand Canal was full not of gondolas, but of paper boats carrying candles and flowers to long dead ancestors, and the people belonged anywhere and nowhere. Venice was itself, and another place, because water is always the gateway to distant worlds.

No, you couldn't escape the canals in Venice and, if you had a soul, you wouldn't want to.

When Dan had mentioned his holiday plans to friends at work, they'd all cooed over the canals. Everyone seemed to know someone who'd honeymooned in Venice, or at least had a dirty weekend. It was something demanded by the precepts of literature. Keith Waterhouse to Thomas Mann, everyone had something to say. Chiefly, it was 'Ah, Venice… '

No wonder the damn place had a Bridge of Sighs.

Even Alan – cold-blooded, cynical Alan, who claimed he'd sucked the nectar from life by his thirtieth birthday and was bored even then – even he had closed his eyes, exhaled a stream of passionate air through his nostrils and said, 'Magnifico!'

Over a Prêt baguette and a cappuccino, he told Dan he was jealous.

'You'll adore it. All the artists do. It's like a big Wendy house of a city, covered in filigree and rubbed with gilding paint, just for all the creative types to play in.'

Dan had sniggered good-naturedly. He was more an illustrator than an artist, he commented, but Alan waved the fact away.

'Shut up, I'm rapturing. Anyway, who knows? You might even find a strapping olive-skinned gondolier to — ' Another vague, swishy hand wave. ' — punt your canoe.'

'I don't think so.'

Trepidation earned Dan one of Alan's speciality sneers. Years of English public school education, naturally plummy vowels and a secret ambition to be Quentin Crisp had honed them to a vicious perfection.

'Well, you can't spend the rest of your life moping, Dan. And holidays are supposed to be for dirty, nasty little flings. Why do think I go to Blackpool every year?'

It was something Dan didn't want to dwell on. Not here, and not now, looking out at the dying light over the Palazzo, shimmering in reds, oranges and purples. He watched the sunset until its conclusion, until the last stains left the sky to be overcome by the lights from buildings and, beyond the Square, boats. It was beautiful, if you accepted the smell.

You didn't see that in images, and Dan supposed that that was part of the joy. What he did – the inspiration he would draw from this place – it was all pages in glossy magazines, selling a dream of high living and romantic beauty to an eager public. His pictures, Alan's words… or those of his other colleagues.

Dan let the thick, beige curtain fall over the city, and turned back to the quiet, neutral space of his room. The Antigo Trovatore was a comfortable hotel, not too pricey, not too cheap, central and with good service. Taking advantage of all the deals of the season, Dan had been able to book two weeks. He looked at his single suitcase, sitting bleakly on the dressing table. It would have been nice if it wasn't a twin room, but he'd had to take what he could get.

Still, there were ensuite facilities and, after a hot shower in the clean, white bathroom, Dan reluctantly gave into jet lag and decided to hit the hay. It was barely nine thirty, local time, and after experimenting with various positions (left bed, right bed, pushed together, pulled apart), he settled in the bed nearest the window, wrapped in a towel and leafing through the movie guide.

It seemed a little odd to be alone in Venice, perhaps because he'd never been. Dan felt briefly that he was fighting convention, taking a stand against society in declaring his independence. He sure as hell wasn't going to wish that Paul was there.

Six months had passed, somehow, since they split up. It felt like nothing; the blink of an eye, probably fighting back tears. Not a happy time, but then the two years that preceded it hadn't been so great.

If Dan found himself thinking of when they first met, at a gallery show in Shepherd's Bush, drinking cheap champagne and being polite about the pictures; if he found himself thinking of the witty, attractive man who had shared his taste in art and then shared the taste of his kisses in the car park, he got angry. It wasn't, and had never been, enough.

He had never thought Paul was perfect. No, Mr. Average Height, Mousy Blond and Passable wasn't dramatic in his appeal. It was his way of putting you at ease that hit the target.

He remembered their first night together, after a couple of what could loosely be termed dates and a general pretence at romance. Paul's lips on his, breaths whispering between them, fingers stumbling over buttons and zippers… he was gentle, kind, passionate.

It took a few months for Dan to notice the undercurrent. At first, Paul started to take longer over penetration, insisted on topping more often.

'I just want to be in you,' he'd say, gazing seriously at Dan, dishevelled and magnetically naughty. 'You have such a great arse. No-one's ever pumped my cock like you.'

Sex would be harder, rougher. Words like 'whore' and 'cum-slut' would sneak in, leaking from Paul's mouth as he fucked, dribbling down to Dan's ear as he leaned over him, ramming his cock home.

At first, it was fairly subtle, and so it was new and exciting. By the end of their first year together, Dan was mistaking control for safety, and not going out so much. He agreed to indulge one of Paul's fantasies, and play with some handcuffs.

In the morning, when his wrists were scuffed and his backside torn, he knew it was time to do something about it. Paul, naturally, was mortified. He wept, so distressed that Dan hadn't been happy with things, and swore that they could work it out.

They went, as a couple, to a Christmas party in Lancaster Gate, kissed under the mistletoe, and left as the image of happy, stable lovers.

At home, Dan initiated sex for the first time in weeks, and ended up with a rutting bronco behind him, grinding his face into the pillows.

He left four days after Paul hit him. It was during an argument – he'd suggested that there were other ways to have fun than just lubing up and sticking it in, and been rewarded with a full facial.

'Ah! D'you like that, you fucker?'

Paul obviously wasn't expecting 'No.'

They fought, rather than just disagreed. Books and papers were flung off surfaces, the plastic phone and a bedside lamp were smashed, and then Paul swung a backhander, catching Dan on the cheekbone. A small gash opened up, half-dry spunk flew into the air, and somewhere amid the pain, humiliation and betrayal, Dan seemed to watch himself punch Paul on the nose.

As if he was viewing the scene from above, like a hospital operation, he watched the two naked bodies brawl, heard himself screaming obscenities, and then saw the fist come flying. He would, if he could, have shouted out and warned himself, because he was so busy letting out the months of frustration in a succession of four-letter words that it was unlikely he could duck to avoid it… but it was too late.

He arrived at work on Monday morning, a single man with a black eye and a puffy, purple cheek, but with a seed of self-respect germinating. He didn't press charges, in the long run. Didn't even report it, despite the exhortations of everyone who saw the damage. There didn't seem to be much point.

Besides, as Dan put the movie guide down, crawled under the covers and switched out the light, it was Paul's face that hovered behind his eyes, and Paul's body that he stretched out his arms for, twisting and frowning in his sleep.

***

In the morning, Dan took breakfast on the balcony and, after half an hour of gazing at the Piazza San Marco and the Palazzo, decided to be a proper tourist and walk down there. It wasn't far from the hotel, so he had a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a shirt, threw on his trusty leather blazer, popped a stick of gum, and went downstairs.

The concierge assured him that the Piazza was an excellent choice for the visitor, explaining in great, effusive detail the story of how a sixteenth century Venetian ambassador to Istanbul had brought thekahavè bean back from his travels to roast, grind and serve as an exotic stimulant beverage.

In no time, a cloak of cafés had sprung up around San Marco, and the concierge particularly recommended the Café Quadri, if Sir could get a table.

'It was open in 1775, signor, so they have plenty of time to get the coffee right, si?'

Dan smiled, thanked him, and said he would look out for it. Before he could get away, the young man was telling him how the legendary Giacomo Casanova had frequented the cafés of San Marco and – with a pointed look at one of the maids, running her trolley through from the ground floor rooms – reminded him what a romantic city Venezia was.

Dan gave him another tip just to shut him up.

He felt better about his dreams out in the cool, crisp air. He had been right, it was the quality of light. Like the reflections of blue tiles in a swimming pool, or leaves above a woodland creek, it made the whole place shimmer slightly. Of course, it could just have been the sense of expectation that thousands of tourists invested in the place.

Still, Venice in mid-October was quieter than in much of the year, and Dan was even able to get a seat in the famous Quadri Coffee Rooms. He slotted himself in between the rather oppressive mirrored walls and overwhelming panelwork, probably very little like the original eighteenth century designs, and studied his fellow tourists over his espresso.

There were fat, brightly clothed American women – not the loud shrews of stereotype, but another generation. They clung to their girlfriends' elbows, shared the same colour of bright red lipstick, and were proud to know the history of a place they were bold enough to visit.

Japanese students, sans cameras, sat in small groups, with dyed blonde forelocks and high IQs, giggling over the Casanova part of the history.

There were even some Venetians in the building – couples meeting for a coffee, or an early lunch in the ristorante upstairs – even one or two people who lived near San Marco and just enjoyed Quadri, sitting, unfolding their copies of L'Arena or Il Gazzettino, and trying to carve a small window of peace amid the bustle.

Dan noticed the man as he stood, looking for a table in the encroaching scrum, and assumed he was one of the latter faction. He was tallish, dressed in a pale, crumpled suit with a light shirt open at the neck, showing a tight arrow of flesh pricked with dark hair. Automatically, and embarrassingly, Dan caught himself eyeing up what might lay beneath the wrinkled fabric of those trousers. He looked away (they were too baggy to tell properly, anyway), and decided not to peek again. The resolution didn't last and, as he tried to surreptitiously scan the dark, hooded eyes, open forehead and large, mobile mouth, he was caught out, and the man began to approach.

Silently, Dan cursed. He hadn't intended any invitation to share his table but, obviously, there were worse candidates than attractive Italian men. He smiled, earning a white-toothed grin from the stranger.

'Ah, grazie. It's not usually so busy in here.' He looked around him, placing a paperback book and a tall cappuccino, crested with what could almost be shaving foam (none of that wussy Starbucks froth here!), on the table.

There was a vague scent of cloves and citrus about him. Dan quietly noted all the features of his hands, movement and expression and intoned inwardly, with the utmost solemnity, 'Phwoar'.

'You're a resident?' he asked, wracking his brain for a way not to say 'do you come here often?'.

The Italian sat down, giving Dan another gracious, warm smile. He looked young, although his hair was starting to recede slightly. His skin was lightly tanned, a cool olive complexion with a shadow of dark stubble playing around his jaw, less obvious in the light. Dan guessed he wasn't much older than thirty.

'No, on holiday. I'm from Modena. Mi chiave Cesare… ciao.'

'Dan… Daniel.'

Dan tried to ignore the thrill of contact as they shook hands across the table, but a certain kind of electricity pulsed in Cesare's warm, firm hand. Unbidden lines of prose sprang into his head:

This grasp was as soft as a child's, as expert as a whore's, as strong as a fencer's.

The Italian gave a slight backward tilt of the head, regarding him with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

'Inglese, si?'

Dan nodded. 'Si.'

'First time in Venezia?'

'Mm-hm. Only got in last night, so this is my first full day.'

'Ah, I come three times before. Once, when I was a boy, with my family. Two, when I was a teenager, with my friends, three, last year and now I am back again. It's a beautiful city.'

Dan listened to the sound of his voice; low yet not that deep, like a light tenor. Although his Italian wasn't good enough to judge regional accents, he loved the way words sounded when they came from Cesare.

'It is,' he agreed. 'Water and light.'

'Prego?'

'The canals, the way they reflect the light… it's like the whole city shimmers.'

Cesare smiled again, and Dan reminded himself what he was not here for.

'Ma guarda! Il poeta!' Cesare seemed delighted with the description. 'That is very true. You are a poet, a writer?'

'No, no. No, I do pictures… photos and artwork and things, for a magazine. And other things. Freelance work, generally.'

'Really? An artist.' He raised his eyebrows. 'I am impressed. I am a schoolteacher, which I don't think is an art.'

Dan grinned over his hot, dark coffee.

'Oh, I don't know. If it isn't, it should be. What age kids do you teach?'

'I teach scuola elementare, so they start at six, and I have them in my clutches for five years – not always the same class, but, si, that age. Diavolini, sometimes, but why else do you do things, if it is not for the children?'

He held up his hands in a characteristically Italian gesture that made Dan want to chuckle. He didn't, not wanting to seem rude, but Cesare's enthusiasm was contagious.

He had wonderful hands, though.

Long fingers with large, smooth joints, big square palms and neatly trimmed nails. No wedding band, Dan noticed, inwardly reprimanding himself for doing so. A holiday screw like that had as much class as going on a cookery course and fucking the chef. Especially when he'd told himself he wasn't here for that. Looking, no touching.

Of course – and Dan was not a great believer in games of chance – if Cesare happened to be interested, which he almost certainly wasn't… but if he did, it might be a different matter.

Dan took another sip of coffee. Turkish courage. It was cooling rapidly, but still tasted good; an excellent blend, just the right side of bitter, with depth, darkness and complexity. He was going to have to know. He cleared his throat.

'So, do you have kids yourself?'

Cesare licked cappuccino foam off his upper lip in a movement that made Dan's cock twitch. The reaction was unexpected, and he drowned it in coffee.

'No, no children. No wife. A bachelor with — ' He looked Dan straight in the eyes. ' — nobody special in my life. It's very sad. I am even alone on holiday.'

Amid the dramatic architecture and noise of city life, a choir of angels sprang out of the ceiling and began to bellow Handel, banging incongruous tambourines and shouting 'Yee-haw'. Dan ignored them.

'I see,' he said, carefully, and licked his lips. 'Me too.'

Cesare raised his cup to his lips, his eyes never leaving Dan's.I know you, they seemed to say.I have found you.

'I don't think it is good to be alone, Daniel. Not with so much beauty to see.'

Dan swallowed. The angels had retreated, and were replaced with a succession of small, niggling creatures with eight legs, high-pitched voices and bad attitudes. Dan called them 'whattifs'.

Still, some of the things they whispered about were tempting, as well as scary.

'Maybe.'

Cesare smiled again. 'So, as it is your first time in Venezia, perhaps I can show you some of the best places to see, if you like?'

Dan felt his pulse quicken, and his jeans grow tighter.

'Would you?'

'My pleasure – you will find many guides in the city, but I think they are little caro… expensive, for what you get. I read poco, I know a little about the history. See the bell tower di San Marco, over there?'

Dan craned in his seat, following the line Cesare pointed with his spoon.

'Mm-hm.'

'El paron de casa, they call it. The Lord of the House. You know, each of the five bells has a name.'

'Yeah?'

'Si.'

Cesare was looking pleased with himself. Dan wondered if he made a habit of seducing tourists, and pushed the thought to the back of his mind. It was sightseeing, not seduction. So far.

'If you are finished, your coffee — ' The Italian glanced at his watch, a flash of chrome in the thin sunlight. ' — there will be a tour starting soon, I think. We could walk around the outside, see the rest of San Marco, while it is quieter.'

Dan looked over at the throngs of people feeding pigeons, taking photographs and staring up at the long windows of buildings, pressing down on them with centuries' weight.

'Good idea,' he said.

As they rose from the table, Cesare paused to pick up his book, brushing against Dan's arm. His scent, in closer proximity, was delicious.

'Pratolini?' Dan glanced at the title and author.

'You read Italiano?'

'No, not that well.' They were leaving the café, heading out across the square, through the throngs of people, but their pace was leisurely. Nothing on earth could hurry this. 'But I read a short story of his – in translation. Very good.'

Cesare laughed, a rippling, smooth sound.

'You read nothing until you read Italian novels in Italian. It's not so rich a language as English, maybe… but it's more beautiful. We have passion in our words, a little Mediterranean fire.'

Dan felt himself walk closer to Cesare; his excuse was the press of people, but his motive wasn't. Hundreds of pigeons rose from the square, their wings beating in perfect time.

***

They spent the better part of the day together, exploring unspeaking each other's thoughts and desires. The flirting continued beneath the bell tower, in front of the old façade of the Palazzo, even at the hallowed altars of churches, in the sight of a thousand Catholic martyrs.

Light and water conspired to fill Dan's vision with nothing but his handsome companion, to make the air between them vibrate with an increasing tension. Yet, they both hung back. A couple of times, he wondered if Cesare was really interested, or just displaying the effusive hospitality of a bored man on a break.