Those Days of Summer Ch. 04

On Friday afternoon I drove the two of us to Castelnuovo. I tried not to show it, but the time spent in the narrow alleys of the old town was making my heart melt with joy. Each stop on our road that day was like a still frame composed of smells, textures, sounds, gusts of wind, transcribing themself into a string of vivid memories. The coarse pavement massaging the soles of our feet, the stone walls keeping us in their cold embrace, the scent of honeysuckle climbing up the gates. All those little things I wouldn't even notice on a usual summer afternoon were suddenly making me happy. Was it the weather? Was it the change of surroundings? Was it the warmth of Marcel's smile when he was merrily chattering about nothing?

A local wine shop was the first stop on our road that day. Marcel was thrilled to get to know local specialties and to pick a few bottles as gifts for his colleagues back home. The owner of the place kindly let us sample his finest selection. I passed on, but my companion went with the flow, listening to an endless tale of bouquets and the regions of grape gathering. Observing the poor boy's cheeks get more and more red with each little glass was quite amusing. But when the time came to leave, I had to carry the shopping and take his arm to make sure he wouldn't trip over his own feet.

"Let's sit here for a while, shall we?" I asked him when we finally left the store and neared a little wall fountain by the town walls.

I carefully placed the bag full of chianti bottles on the pavement. Marcel sat down with a deep sigh and leaned his head on the wall, gazing at me with his hazy eyes. That moony look on his face was making me uneasy.

"My God, you've got a wonderful jaw," he said out of the blue. "You would make a perfect model."

"You're drunk, Marcel." I laughed nervously, looking the other way to mask embarrassment.

"I'm just slightly lightheaded." He tilted his head and continued to pierce me with the dreamy stare. „But you... you are good-looking."

"Nonsense..."

I wasn't used to being complemented. Moreover, complemented by a guy. Was he even sincere, or was it just another way to embarrass me? Good looking... And it was a man in the body of an ancient god telling me this.

"Isn't it fun?" I asked after a while. "Modeling I mean. You travel, party, meet people you wouldn't ever think of seeing in person. Sounds like the best job in the world. Not entirely my cup of tea, but you seem to fit in."

Marcel's expression now changed. He laughed bitterly, covering his face with a hand. He looked at me, as if he wanted to say - you have no idea what you're talking about.

"Some moments you're on top of the world, yes. Other times you feel like shit. Financially... can be lucrative. It's a game of chance, but there are ways to succeed, sure." He paused, lowering his sight. "And each success comes with a price." He finished with a gloomy tone.

I only heard of the hardships of this industry. How difficult it can be to land a job, how you end up in debt if you don't get booked enough during fashion weeks, how long some shifts can be. And of course the sexual scandals. It seemed to get better since the internet became a thing, but they were still emerging from time to time. Making it to the headlines, keeping the public busy. I didn't know much about it all. I would say all workers at my mother's fashion house were treated equally well, but it wasn't the case everywhere. The fact that some companies considered models a property was an open secret. Did he have to deal a lot with those? Was he underpaid? Mobbed? Harassed?

"So... are you not happy? With your modeling life?" I asked timidly, not wanting to pressure him.

He looked at me all focused, wondering about the answer. As if he was trying to measure words. Carefully, not to say too much. The blush on his cheeks faded a little, and it seemed he was getting sober, going back to his normal self.

"Right now I'm happy. I really am." He nodded and broke eye-contact, drawing a line under our conversation. "Okay! Shall we go?"

These were things he didn't want me to know about, and I couldn't blame him. We were almost strangers. Our paths crossed for a while just to split again, probably for good. But still I wanted to know more about him. Not only the good things.

We proceeded with our trip as if nothing had happened, visiting the antique store.. Marcel picked a few vinyls and a photo album in a dashing vintage binding for Paola. After strolling down the center of the town, we stopped by a gelateria, and finished the day off on the piazza by the church.

Right in front of us, just behind the railing of the viewpoint, a stunning image of the Apuan Alps was spreading. We left the bags on the ground, leaned on the ledge and continued on eating the ice-cream, while admiring the panorama.

"Is the chianti we bought really the best?" Marcel asked out of the blue. "The guy at the winery bragged so much about the quality."

"I don't know if it's the best, but mom and Marco like it a lot. Why?"

His sight was unusually calm, maybe even sad. He was avoiding my eyes, focusing on the cone he was holding. It was a version of him I wasn't accustomed to yet. Suddenly a careless boy hid somewhere, letting the seriousness and sorrow take over.

"Good. I'll leave them a bottle as a thank-you gift for taking me in."

"Is that so?" My heart jumped suddenly. He was trying to tell me something...

There was still quite some time left, wasn't there? I counted the days for the first time since he stepped into our house. It was Friday, and the catalog shoot ending off the project was planned in exactly one week.

"On Monday I'll be moving to a guest house here in Castelnuovo. You'll have the room all to yourself again." He finally looked at me with a weak smile.

A few days prior I would have been more than happy hearing the news. But now I wasn't so sure about my feelings. Suddenly I began to worry about things I haven't said and done. There were so many questions left unasked, so many conversations we could have had. I wanted to let him know that he wasn't an intruder anymore, that he could stay if he wanted to. But my throat was clenched. My palms paralyzed, pressed against the cold stones of the ledge. I only managed to sum his words up with a cynical smirk.

"Well, better late than never."

Was my answer what he wanted to hear? Did he want to spend more time with me as well? Even if he did, he showed no sign of disappointment. My words were brushed off with a laugh, but something changed in the atmosphere. What used to be a jolly afternoon trip at the start, ended with a preposterous silence. A silence none of us dared to break.

Saturday came, and he was gone again. No words of explanation, no goodbyes. Fair enough, I left him no reason to care. We said what we had to say and could commit to different matters now. I was free to leave my introverted ass at home. He was free to run after the girls again. We went back to the beginning it seemed.

Lying on my bed during the day I was browsing the drawings from the passing week. Marcel's silhouette was taking more and more space in the sketchbook with every page I flipped. As if an intruder turned into a muse, as if a muse became an obsession.

Obsession...

My fingers ran through one of the portraits. His jaw was sharp, his collar bones well-pronounced, the skin of his neck smooth and clean. He was wearing that red Valentino shirt in the picture...

My sight landed on the mattress at the other end of the room, unusually disarranged, as if his owner had left in a hurry. That exact shirt was laying on top of the bed, like a crimson stain adorning the immaculate mess of cotton folds. Its vivid color was tempting me to get closer, to lay my fingers on the soft material, to bury my face in it. One moment I was revising the drawings, the other I found myself drowning in the smell of citron and grass mixed with salty sweat of the only body I dared to dream of those days.

I shucked off my top, put his shirt on, and sat in the nest of his sheets. My fingers were grasping the folds of bedding around, impatient, hungry, willing. In a luscious fever I grabbed his pillow. Pressing my nostrils to the fabric, absorbing his scent, soaking in it, I understood I was well beyond saving. I couldn't control myself anymore.

Not knowing where he was that day, I assumed he could enter the room any minute. The thought of him suddenly opening the door was taking me over the edge. What will he say if he sees me now, I was wondering in between the thrusts. Will he be angry? Will he despise me? Will he join?

I closed my eyes, imagining him appearing in the room. "What on Earth?" He asks, his thick southern brows raise in shock. "Do you like what you see?" I moan in a trance of desire. He kneels down on the bed in front of me. I can see the bulge filling his trunks. "Help me, Marcel." I beg, reaching to his crotch. "Marcel..."

He didn't enter the room. He didn't see. Maybe he'll notice in the night, I thought, when he covers himself in the mixture of our scents. Maybe he'll get angry. Maybe he'll get turned on. Maybe he'll brush it off.

Was I just horny or was I getting insane? Have I completely lost my mind over that guy? I kept telling myself it was no big deal. That my madness didn't do any damage. It was gross, yes. But it wasn't harmful. Was it? He was about to leave for good soon anyway. Two more nights...

***

When we finally reached Paola's house that evening, Marcel seemed unusually inaccessible, quiet. It's not that he was ignoring us, but he visibly distanced himself from both me and our host. At first I thought he was not in the mood to socialize. But as soon as we entered the backyard, he plunged into partying. The garden was full of people, flashing lights and loud music. Marcel quickly found himself a new company, completely tuning me and the girl out. I could understand his avoidance towards me. But why Paolina? Had she gotten into a quarrel with him. A lovers quarrel perhaps?

Not having much choice left, I decided to spend the night alone. It was Marcel who dragged me to the party in the first place, but it didn't seem he was the one to keep me company. I stopped by the bar to grab a drink, and sat at the terrace stairs, gazing at the crowd in the distance. One could say I was chilling out, but not a single part of my body felt relaxed that evening. Disappointment, anger and sorrow were stirring inside of me, forming a tight tangle of bitterness in my chest. I couldn't stop thinking about our exchange from the day before. I should have said something to keep him at our house. I should have done something to make him see I wanted his presence. If there was the slightest chance for us,  I forfeited it for good.

I kept sipping Aperol, as if the drink could help me calm down.  The ice cubes in my cup were pleasantly ringing against the glass, as my eyes kept following Marcel's silhouette. He was moving gracefully among other party animals on the dance floor. I couldn't help thinking he must have been flirting with the girls around him. The way he was dancing was so loose, so sensual. Or was it just me and my dirty imagination again?

Immensely focused on his body swaying to the rhythm, I almost missed Paolina climbing up the stairs. She took a seat by my side, stretching out her legs with a deep sigh.

"Evening," she welcomed me with a blank tone, placing a bottle of wine on the ground between us.

I looked at her skeptically, surprised our birthday girl was finding my company more appealing than having fun with others. She silently followed my footsteps, staring at the people. Was she also observing Marcel? Of course she was... We were equally sick with the guy. 

"You want one?" She asked suddenly, taking out a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of her oversize jacket.

"I don't smoke," I grunted, irritated that she was trying to make contact with me.

"I doubt that."

She lighted a cigarette herself, gazing at me. Could it be that she had noticed me smoking on the terrace the other day? After a moment of hesitation I reached for the package she placed by the wine bottle.

"Now we're talking," she approved my move and gave me the fire.

"Why are you here?" I finally asked, looking at her petite silhouette sinking in a tight dress embroidered with golden sequins.

"I believe our nasty moods have a common cause."

I scowled at her. Did she get the brush from Marcel?

"Don't look at me like that," she sighed pretentiously. "I know you're into him too."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I took a drag and continued to observe the crowd.

"We were running together this morning, you know?"

Were they? It was the first time he hadn't tried to wake me up for "a jog" since he appeared in our house. Have they spent the day together? Were they having fun when I was playing dirty in his sheets? How ironic...

"I tried, I really tried to..." She rubbed her temples, as if she was unable to come to terms with something. "He said he wasn't interested," she continued, and my mind made a sudden turn backwards. "Neither in me, nor in girls generally."

My heart started to race. I felt a sudden wave of relief cleansing me the moment my brain registered her words.

So we were alike... How could I be so blind, so delusional? He was flirting with me, and I took it for mockery. He was trying to show he liked me, and I took it for kindness.

"Is that so?" I looked at her nonchalantly, trying to sound indifferent.

Was the news something unexpected? Just by the look on her face I recognized she had her suspicions long before he decided to comes out.

And she wasn't the only one... Isn't it more convenient to see things the way we'd like them to be, and not the way they really are?

"Did he... say anything about me?" I asked after a short while, unable to hide my interest. It was a perfect occasion to gather some insight without exposing myself before Marcel.

"Ah, yes..." She let out a smoke, looking me in the eye.

"And?" I nagged her impatiently.

"You should ask him yourself," she shrugged. It must have been nice, having me on the string and hitting exactly where it hurt.

"Don't be such a bitch," I whined.

"Oh but I am." She smirked before continuing. "Seriously though, he thinks you're scared of him."

"I don't quite understand..."

"You're a moron, Victor," she stubbed the cigarette and grabbed the bottle to pour herself a glass. "Go talk to him."

Was I scared? Was it the reason I kept my eyes closed for the signs, convincing myself he was not interested? Was the fear what he saw in my clumsy ways, my pretended indifference, my  nervous stares and looks-away?

"Go talk to him..." I slowly reprised her words, looking at the bottom of my now empty glass.  "I might need a drink or two before I can do that." I filled the cup with wine she brought. „Happy birthday, Paola."

Having one glass after another, I gradually started to tolerate that bitch, maybe even like her. At least like her enough to share a smile. We chatted a little, laughed a little, and when the alcohol started to buzz in our veins for good, we even hit the dance floor.

Before all the guests sang happy birthday, before Paolina blew the candles, I was already well-loaded. Summer hits were blending into each other, the world was swirling and swaying, swallowing me into a hole of unconsciousness.

"I didn't know you were a smoker." Marcel appeared beside me when I was taking a break on my own, watching people chilling in the pool.

"I am not." I smiled at him in a haze and let the smoke out.

He was holding a bottle of beer in his hand, but he didn't seem drunk at all. I noticed it was labeled as non-alcoholic. Weird, I thought. It seemed he wasn't such a good-time guy after all. 

"Don't you think it's time to go?" He asked with concern.

"Are you worried about me?" I smiled playfully.

He sighed and came over to me, wrapping his fingers around the edge of a terrace railing.

"Maybe. Am I not allowed to?"

"You dragged me into this party, then went on with your business. Doesn't seem like you care that much." I looked at him boldly.

"Well, you've made it clear you'd rather see me gone. I didn't want to force myself on you." He paused, and I noticed the corner of his lips rising, as if he was trying to hide a smile. "Have you missed my company?"

"Maybe."

I smirked, placing my palm on the railing, just beside his hand. The warmth of his skin almost made me tremble. He didn't move away, just kept gazing at me. Something in his stare was telling me he knew exactly what emotions my "maybe" was lined with.

"Shall we go home now?" He asked.

I might have replied to him longingly "Take me home, Marcel. Please, take me." Or maybe it was just a voice in my head, a sound of my flaming synapses making the last flip before blacking out. The next thing I remember was stopping by Lago di Vagli on our way back to the village.

"Let's wait here. Sober up a little before we get there."

Marcel helped me take a seat in the grass damp with the morning dew. His arm was resting on my shoulder, ready to intervene in case I lost my balance.

"I'll be deft like a ninja. Won't wake them up, I promise," I laughed, taking a bottle of water he handed me.

The sheet of the lake was calm and still. The stars were reflecting in it, dispersing an endless void of darkness. It was the first time I've been there in such an hour. There were no people in sight, but nature was thriving, vibrating with noises of insects composing a sleepless symphony. I remember thinking it might have been the last night like this. With the warmth of a familiar body pressed against mine.

"Would you stay if I asked you to?" I whispered, leaning my head against Marcel's shoulder.

"What do you mean by that?" He whispered back.

"You know what." I exclaimed at him. Was he having fun pretending oblivion? "Don't move out."

We stayed still for a longer while. His palm squeezed on my shoulder. My forehead resting in the bend of his neck. My nostrils reveling in the scent of his body I was already accustomed with. I almost forgot what I wanted from him, lost in pleasant sensations, when he finally decided to respond.

"I'll tell my agent. Will you ask your mom?"

I pressed my lips to his cheek in a sudden outburst of joy.

"I will..."

"I will.."

"I will..."