dark arm around Enrico’s white waist to hold him gently, caress his soft, freckled skin. “Together, we make art,” Enrico says.
Dawit watches the way Enrico stands on one foot, leaning slightly against a wall, the tilt of the hip, the tentative, soft-footed, graceful walk. Even his tennis, the steady game he plays, hitting the ball regularly, elegantly, but never with much force, Dawit finds endearing. Somehow, Enrico’s delicacy moves Dawit more than a muscular frame would have. He seems vulnerable, boyish, easily swayed. Dawit wants to protect him despite his worldly success as an architect, despite his rich wife, his powerful family, his aristocratic antecedents. He seems unsure of himself in so many ways, always sees both sides to every question, vacillating, uncertain. “You may be right,” he often says, laughing, shrugging his narrow shoulders.
He talks about his life in Rome. He is in love with Rome and proud of his city as only a Roman can be. He says, “It’s so beautiful. Every time you turn a corner it is with an orgasm. The Romans are so beautiful, too, even the policemen in their white helmets in the summer with their batons lifted are beautiful.”
He invites Dawit to visit. He wants to show him the streets, the monuments that he loves particularly: the little circular temple of Vesta in the Roman forum—he makes a gesture to convey his admiration. He offers to find him a job, perhaps even at the firm where he works. Dawit must bone up on his Italian. “With your gift for languages, it would be easy enough. It’s amazing how much Italian you’ve learned in a few weeks. It would be great to have you there,” he says. He laughs when Dawit sometimes uses the archaic words he has found in Dante. “You are too much,” he says. “You speak archaic Italian! You must come and stay in Rome. We could see one another every day.” He tells Dawit he goes every evening to have a drink with his widowed mother before dinner, and she is a wonderful alibi and always understanding.
“How lucky you are!” Dawit says, thinking of his own mother and how understanding she was.
Dawit imagines a small apartment in Rome, a job, the possibility of spending every evening with Enrico, above all his own freedom. They even speak of living together openly, but Dawit is quite aware this is just a fantasy, as is most probably the job at the architectural firm in Rome. Enrico’s position, if Dawit has understood rightly, though he is a good architect, still depends largely on his wife’s family’s powerfulinfluence as the source of his commissions. Besides, Dawit is certain this man would never leave his wife or do anything to jeopardize his marriage.
The wife, of course, knows nothing about this secret summer life. Enrico says he feels terrible about her. She is young and lovely and loves him very much. “Lying is a lonely business,
amico mio
,” he says remorsefully.
XVI
S OMETIMES, AFTER MAKING LOVE, THEY LEAVE THE TENNIS courts and dare to drive together in M.’s Jaguar with the top down along the coast. They park in an isolated clearing overlooking a small, quiet beach. They sit side by side in silence in the car. Nothing stirs, and all they can hear is the soft, sad lapping of the sea, the lonely cry of a seagull, the monotonous chirring of the cicadas. Everything speaks to Dawit of death. He looks at the calm, clear water, the stunted bushes that grow wild along the coast, and the bullrushes almost pink in the twilight. This lovely place will still be here, eternal and indifferent when he and Enrico are no more.
He does not recount the torture, the beatings of the feet held suspended in the air, or the repeated near-drownings in filthy water, or even the interminable loneliness of his cell, but rather the few moments of reprieve during his imprisonment. Sporadically and inexplicably, he would be dragged out, wounded, bleeding, and half mad from solitude, from his cell. He was allowed to clean himself.
Dawit watches the way Enrico stands on one foot, leaning slightly against a wall, the tilt of the hip, the tentative, soft-footed, graceful walk. Even his tennis, the steady game he plays, hitting the ball regularly, elegantly, but never with much force, Dawit finds endearing. Somehow, Enrico’s delicacy moves Dawit more than a muscular frame would have. He seems vulnerable, boyish, easily swayed. Dawit wants to protect him despite his worldly success as an architect, despite his rich wife, his powerful family, his aristocratic antecedents. He seems unsure of himself in so many ways, always sees both sides to every question, vacillating, uncertain. “You may be right,” he often says, laughing, shrugging his narrow shoulders.
He talks about his life in Rome. He is in love with Rome and proud of his city as only a Roman can be. He says, “It’s so beautiful. Every time you turn a corner it is with an orgasm. The Romans are so beautiful, too, even the policemen in their white helmets in the summer with their batons lifted are beautiful.”
He invites Dawit to visit. He wants to show him the streets, the monuments that he loves particularly: the little circular temple of Vesta in the Roman forum—he makes a gesture to convey his admiration. He offers to find him a job, perhaps even at the firm where he works. Dawit must bone up on his Italian. “With your gift for languages, it would be easy enough. It’s amazing how much Italian you’ve learned in a few weeks. It would be great to have you there,” he says. He laughs when Dawit sometimes uses the archaic words he has found in Dante. “You are too much,” he says. “You speak archaic Italian! You must come and stay in Rome. We could see one another every day.” He tells Dawit he goes every evening to have a drink with his widowed mother before dinner, and she is a wonderful alibi and always understanding.
“How lucky you are!” Dawit says, thinking of his own mother and how understanding she was.
Dawit imagines a small apartment in Rome, a job, the possibility of spending every evening with Enrico, above all his own freedom. They even speak of living together openly, but Dawit is quite aware this is just a fantasy, as is most probably the job at the architectural firm in Rome. Enrico’s position, if Dawit has understood rightly, though he is a good architect, still depends largely on his wife’s family’s powerfulinfluence as the source of his commissions. Besides, Dawit is certain this man would never leave his wife or do anything to jeopardize his marriage.
The wife, of course, knows nothing about this secret summer life. Enrico says he feels terrible about her. She is young and lovely and loves him very much. “Lying is a lonely business,
amico mio
,” he says remorsefully.
XVI
S OMETIMES, AFTER MAKING LOVE, THEY LEAVE THE TENNIS courts and dare to drive together in M.’s Jaguar with the top down along the coast. They park in an isolated clearing overlooking a small, quiet beach. They sit side by side in silence in the car. Nothing stirs, and all they can hear is the soft, sad lapping of the sea, the lonely cry of a seagull, the monotonous chirring of the cicadas. Everything speaks to Dawit of death. He looks at the calm, clear water, the stunted bushes that grow wild along the coast, and the bullrushes almost pink in the twilight. This lovely place will still be here, eternal and indifferent when he and Enrico are no more.
He does not recount the torture, the beatings of the feet held suspended in the air, or the repeated near-drownings in filthy water, or even the interminable loneliness of his cell, but rather the few moments of reprieve during his imprisonment. Sporadically and inexplicably, he would be dragged out, wounded, bleeding, and half mad from solitude, from his cell. He was allowed to clean himself.
Similar Books
