Platres Conclave Ch. 01

The handsome man was sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and talking with the barman as if they were longtime friends when I entered. I found a table far enough from the bar that I could read without hearing what they were discussing but at an angle where I could watch the other guest. He was powerfully built, and I thought him the best thing I'd seen in the hotel thus far. The barman came over and I ordered a brandy sour, which I'd learned was virtually the national drink of Cyprus after beer and wine, and, after he had served it up, he went back to the bar.

I was engrossed in a passage in the biography that I thought would give me a good hook for my own manuscript and thus didn't see the handsome man approach and circle behind me.

"You cannot sleep in Platres for the nightingales. Shy nightingale, hidden amount whispering leaves, you bring the echoing coolness of the forest to the sundered souls and bodies of those who know there can be no return."

The voice was deep and rich and the poetry had been enunciated with mesmerizing cadence. What shocked me, though, was that I recognized the poem. It had been the source of the title of the manuscript I was working on—"Sleep for the Nightingale."

"It's from George Seferis's 'Eleni,' and it was written about this hotel. Seferis is virtually the adopted poet laureate of Cyprus."

"Yes, I know," I answered.

"What of these tidbits of information do you know?" the man asked. I was looking up into his face as he came around to the side of me.

"All of it," I answered.

"Ah, an educated man. Do you mind if I sit for a moment?"

"No, please do," I answered, gesturing at the empty chair at the small table. "An interesting—and unique introduction," I said as he sat. Like me, he had lost his suit jacket and tie and had unbuttoned his pleated tux shirt. Unlike me, though, he had unbuttoned his almost down to his navel and as he sat his shirt front opened to where I could see a well-muscled chest with a patch of curly black hair running under his pecs and meeting at his sternum and continuing down toward his belt buckle. He was well tanned and there was a silver ring through his right nipple. A man of mystery and surprises. He had me from that moment—if not before.

"I saw that you were reading up on George Seferis. The two books you have there. So, are you an expert on Cyprus and Greece and our poets?"

"No, I can hardly say that. But I'm learning."

"My name is Nico. Nico Christou," he said in that rich baritone voice of his. His English was slightly British; his diction was perfect and slightly theatrical.

"Hello Nico. I am—"

"Collin Stevens, the American novelist," he completed my sentence for me.

I looked at him sharply, in surprise.

"We are practically the only guests here, Mr. Stevens. And I am here so often that the hotel staff indulges me. I was curious. I am the curious sort."

"And the sort who can quote George Seferis off the top of his head," I said, with a laugh. "I doubt it says 'novelist' on the registration book, though," I added.

"No, it doesn't. It says American embassy, which makes you all the more intriguing. But I have my ways of checking. And I'm a fan. I've read a couple of your books."

"You have?" I was genuinely surprised. "Telfair Square, maybe?"

"No, although I've heard you have done quite well with that. Perhaps that's what has paid for that magnificent Jaguar you arrived in? No, I have read some earlier works of yours. Homeward Bound and Journey to Mirage for two. I think there may have been another, but I cannot recall its title."

I felt myself turning red at the mention of those titles. Those were very early ones of mine—ones rarely mentioned anymore. Both novels had gay protagonists and were quite explicit.

"You even researched the car I drive?" I asked, wanting to tamp down the focus of the conversation, but not wanting to break from the conversation, which, along with his sheer sexiness in his half-dressed formal wear state, was having a very pleasant effect on my body.

"It was hard to miss, especially, as it happens, because I knew the owner of that car. We have very few cars like that on Cyprus, and it's a small island."

"You knew the owner?"

"Yes, very well—biblically you might even say. Anastades was quite the playboy. Unfortunately he let drugs get to him too much. I think he may have picked up that bad habit in Monte Carlo; that's also something we don't see much of in Cyprus—at least among the Cypriots. But tell me, Mr. Collin Stevens, what is that has brought you to Cyprus? And what is that a novelist does in an embassy?"

"I believe they have told me I'll be some sort of cultural ambassador," I answered with a laugh.

"To sell American culture to us?" Nico asked in mock disbelief. "You Americans perhaps don't believe we have enough culture?"

"That may be the plan," I answered. "But I'm such a slacker that I probably will be a failure at that—much to Cyprus' benefit. I'd much rather discover the culture of Cyprus for my own benefit."

"Ah, well said, Mr. Collin Stevens. I think I am going to like you. Would you like to come up to my room for a nightcap and a maybe?"

"A maybe?"

"I believe you aren't sure enough of me for it to be more than a maybe—at least until we reach my room," he said. He had said it so good-naturedly and naturally and with a straightforward voice, that I almost couldn't believe that he had said it.

My heart was pumping, but I couldn't get the adrenaline to flow. It was just then that I realized how incredibly tired I was. I had escaped from chaos and driven a mountain road requiring total attention. I had swum laps and exhausted myself in my writing craft.

And this was all moving too fast for me.

"I'm afraid I'm all in, Nico. What I need, I think, is the sleep of the dead just now. It was very . . . entertaining meeting you, but I think it would be best if I went to my own room now."

I rose from the table. He didn't, but he looked up at me with an amused expression. "You might check the times for breakfast. As elegant as the Forest Park is, I don't think it fully understands the American clock. If you wish, I could have them call you at breakfast time—or I could just nudge you awake."

"No thanks, I think I'll manage." I had laughed again, a nervous little laugh. It seemed I had been doing that a lot in this conversation. It was just so rushed. He aroused me, but at that moment I thought it would be childish of me just to fall off the wagon Carolyn had constructed for me at the first hint of freedom. I wanted my freedom to be something I used for my art.

"Is there something special about the meal times?" I asked as I picked up the books and prepared to leave. I wanted to leave on some tone that wasn't sexually charged.

"Not really, but you perhaps don't know that Cypriots don't start showing up for dinner until 10:00 p.m. or later. You must have put the kitchen of the dining room in panic tonight."

"But you were there shortly after 9:00."

"Only because you went early."

"Ah, so," I answered. That slightly nervous laugh again. "I wondered why I was the only one in the dining room."

"That's not the only reason, of course," Nico said. "Platres has become quite informal. There are few here who will dress for dinner as required at the Blue Restaurant. Of course, it's also true that we are practically the only guests at the hotel just now. It will be different in a couple of days. But perhaps the embassy didn't tell you that this was the low season in Platres. It could be quite convenient, though. We could make love at the swimming pool and probably no one would notice. You could make passionate cries in my room, and only the staff would hear, and they are too professional to hear."

"Well, thanks for the pointers," I said as I started backing away. I needed to leave now, or I might succumb to his bald suggestions. "Maybe I'll try to find someplace less formal for dinner tomorrow."

"Oh, no, please don't. You looked divine in your tuxedo."

"Umm, uh, thanks. It's been a pleasant chat," I said as I nearly fled from the bar. I looked over at the bar where the barman was polishing glasses and I thought that even he was giving me speculative looks.

"You look even better in a Speedo," Nico called out in my wake. I heard his throaty laughter until the elevator doors closed on me.

I went to sleep that night—but I was unable to do so until I had masturbated to the thought of Nico's silver nipple ring rubbing against my nipple.