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His ears bend around
The edges of the door, but
The knock never comes
-#88, In Blue Solitudes, S. Wilson-Osaki
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Sun baked and swoon giddy, Seb climbed the ancient stone steps to Pompeii’s Villa of the Mysteries, slow as a pilgrim seeking enlightenment. After getting turned around more than once in the courtyard maze of knee-high shrubs—but somehow never making it under the column-supported roof—a slinky white cat stalked across his path. A flick of her tail, and Seb followed her into the fresco-lined corridors, their blood reds and opulent golds eroded by volcanic ash.
Something wasn’t right. Though dust motes spiraled in the beams of sunlight that shined through the cracks in the ceiling, Seb shivered, a mordant damp biting into his bones. The stench of bilious gas and brimstone soot clogged his lungs, making him cough. As he lurched on, half-heard rustles and skitters had him glancing over his shoulder.
His feline guide—who bore a striking resemblance to Nagiko—led him into a remote, shadowy room. From nowhere a torch fired to life, found its way into his hand. Here the frescoes had been preserved in breathtaking detail: a copper-haired beauty flanked by two cupids, a heartbroken man with his head burrowed in his mother’s lap, a winged figure with spear raised, a devious boy holding up a terrifying mask. The more Seb observed, the more vividly the scene played out before his eyes, a Dionysian rite that somehow held the answer to all his questions.
It started with a flick of a hand. Then the flap of a toga. A dancing figure began to twist and twirl. Seb could discern the tinkle of jewels, the crinkle of a scroll, the strum of a lyre. The vibrant scene burst into life, its players singing and chanting, sobbing and bleating with Seb in the role of stunned audience. He staggered back into the suddenly dark corridor, feeling the air with outstretched hands until his little white guardian curled her tail around his ankle.
Seb caught her up in his arms, burying his face in her downy fur. Her purrs reverberated against his cheek; he found his center. Forcing his breaths to slow, his pulse to temper, he looked up to discover himself in the villa’s central hall. A long rectangular room built around a middle skylight framed by columns that acted as a sort of moon dial. Through the gap in the ceiling, towering Vesuvius loomed against an angry sky. Flashes of lightning illuminated a ring of doomsday storm clouds around the volcano’s peak.
A sonic boom electrified the air. Steam shot out of the crater, which vomited hot spews of lava over its edge and down its slopes. The cat clawed into Seb’s arm, sped off. He stood paralyzed, disbelieving. This couldn’t be happening again. Not now. Not to him. Not after...
“It’s begun,” a too-familiar voice beside him whispered, awestruck.
Seb wrenched away from the scene of imminent destruction but somehow wasn’t surprised to see Henry there. Face beaming with wonderment and glee as it always did when facing down impossible odds—like convincing Seb to marry him when he was only twenty-three.
“What has?” Seb asked, because what else could he do with a ghost?
“The inevitable.” Henry turned, regarded him with a look so intimate Seb had to fight against his welling tears. If these were their last moments together, he wanted to witness every second. He pushed into his arms until Henry cupped his face with silky hands—hands too soft to be those of a lifelong traveler, or so Seb always teased him. Henry’s giving stare bore into him, beheld him as no one else ever would. “Be brave.”
Seb drew him in for a kiss. The kiss he tried to give Henry’s cold, broken body on the slab in the coroner’s office, his blood caked on the sheet that covered the worst of it. The last time he ever held him was in death.
But here he was: warm, thrumming, alive. The scrape of his stubble and the soft of his lips, here, at the end of the world. The Villa of the Mysteries had conjured her final marvel, and Seb hugged him hard, drinking in Henry’s rich, clean scent. The scent of pine and smoke and twenty-five-year-old scotch. The feel of a loose flannel shirt and worn denim. Of wiry, bedraggled, bon mot-ed Henry—his husband. The only man he’d ever loved.
The feeling of wrongness crept over him again, spiders scuttling over his skin, but Seb only clung to Henry. Thunder crashed and the sky erupted. The ground quaked. The ceiling crumbled. The wind battered them into a corner. A shower of ash had them cowering.
“Be brave!” Henry shouted into the storm, then screamed...
... shrill as a referee’s whistle, straight into his ear. Seb jolted awake. Head spinning, vision swimming with images from his dream, he grabbed hold of the armrests as the train squealed to a stop. Panting and sweating as if he’d just sprinted a mile, Seb focused on the seat in front of him, some sort of coat of arms stamped into the leather.
When finally he felt stable enough to look outside, the rush of relief that he had not missed his station was replaced by one of dread. Of going back to that luxe but sterile hotel room. Of another night wandering the piazzas of Sorrento, praying for his phone to chime. Of the empty chair at the other end of his dining table, stealing away his appetite.
After downing the last of his water, he searched his backpack for the stack of restaurant cards Andrea had given him on that first ride from the airport.
Seb knew what he had to do.
The shadow of Monte Solaro crept across the sea toward the Faraglioni, seeking to blight out their golden-hour luster. Seb lounged on a tiled bench under the palm trees of the Giardini di Augusto, slurping down a granita al limone from the stand just outside the gates. He’d come to watch the sun set, not accounting for the south-facing location of the garden and the mountain to its west. As metaphors went, it was appropriate. His second afternoon in Capri had been plagued by deep thoughts: of Henry, of Andrea, of his place in the world, of his ambitions for his post-vacation life. Of equal parts excitement and melancholy for this, his last night in Italy.
No question as to where he would spend it. When finally the encroaching twilight extinguished the gilt peaks of the Faraglioni, Seb bid the crocodile’s teeth a fond farewell and strolled up the Via Vittorio Emanuele toward the Piazzetta, the central square. He, and likely other tourists, used its storybook clock tower as something of a compass needle, orienting them toward the different points of interest in Capri Town. A twitch of nerves seized his shoulders as he veered down the Via Roma toward the dainty pink building that housed the best restaurant on the island, Fabiana’s.
After checking his hair in a storefront window, Seb straightened his suit and his posture before shoving his way down the crammed sidewalk. He’d hemmed and hawed for most of the morning over making reservations but decided to just pop in. It felt rebellious to leave something so important to chance. His fairy godmother had bibbidy-bobbidy-booed him into the arms of two princes thus far. Hopefully her wand had a few drops of magic left to enchant this evening.
A few steps from the door, Seb almost lost his nerve. He considered ducking into the far more traditional trattoria across the way, with its gingham tablecloths and its garish ceramic dishes, to people watch until the next ferry. But the silken voice of a 1930s torch singer lured him closer. Passing the alley that led to the lower-level kitchen door, a fragrance so savory and sensuous as to tempt a nun wafted up, tantalizing his senses. The memory of her gnocchi, little potato clouds in a decadent sauce, erased any further doubts. Come what may on the romantic score, Seb deserved this final feast.
“My little savior!” exclaimed the savviest hostess on the island just as Seb gave up hope of securing a table. “Oh, how wonderful to see you back here, Sébastien.”
The stiff-lipped maître d’, among the missing staff last weekend, had attempted to swat him away once Seb admitted to not having a reservation. A few discreet words in Italian from Fabiana, and suddenly a seat opened up in the bar section. The lady herself escorted him down once Seb offered her his arm, petting his hand and complimenting the very same suit he’d worn a week ago as if she’d never set eyes on it.
“I hear I missed quite a party last Sunday. Lena had so much fun with your lady friends she almost slept through our weekly trip to the farmers’ market.”
“They were singing her praises too. I’d wager you’ll see them back here next summer.” Seb kept an eye on the waiters swinging in and out of the kitchen doors, trying to send the message that he looked for a certain someone.
“You must tell them they have a standing invitation if they do come back.”
“They’ll be thrilled to hear it.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “They were pretty jealous when I told them how I spent last Saturday night.”
“Forgetting to mention you were on your feet for most of it?”
“Possibly...”
Her laugh, like the trill of a songbird, drew more than a few predatory eyes in their direction. No wonder Chef Mauro hid in the kitchen, where he could put his knives to better use. Fabiana received this attention as if it was her birthright, nodding and waving to her subjects. Though she steered Seb to a quiet corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows—with an unimpeded view of the staircase, he noticed—he felt as if he were the consort and she the queen. He wondered how drunk he would have to get her before he unlocked her treasure trove of gossip and secrets.
“Order anything you want, bello. I insist.” She squeezed his shoulders as he perused the specials. “It’s my pleasure to treat you. After all, you’re practically family.”
She floated away, hopefully to her office to call a certain fair-weather lover Seb missed something fierce.
He people watched through his first two courses, too wound up to manage anything more than a few scribbles in his journal. Seb switched to one of the romances Kath had passed along to him—a fantastic historical about a monk who falls for a Viking during the Dark Ages—but he glanced up every time someone clopped down the stairs or swept through the kitchen door. Given the waiters came and went once every .3 seconds, he’d absorbed approximately two and a half paragraphs in over an hour. Just when Seb decided to solve for x and pull out his phone, he felt a presence at his side.
He forced out the breath he’d been holding for the past four days. All the arguments and apologies he’d reasoned out escaped him now that the moment had come, but Seb didn’t care. He would listen first—he’d made that silent promise to Andrea in absentia, and to himself. So long as no one sucker punched him—again—they would work it out.
Seb glanced up to find Bruno looming over him and almost passed out. It took every ounce of his self-control not to shrink away. Both his stomach and left cheek braced for a blow, though he didn’t think even Bruno was stupid enough to assault him twice and believe he’d get away with it. Seb stared up at him with as much menace as he could muster—which, truth be told, was probably not a lot—until he noticed the younger man trembled.
“Signor Osakay.” The mistake was far less charming in Bruno’s mumble mouth. “I talk to you, please.”
“About what?”
Bruno worked his jaw, whether out of resentment or lack of vocabulary, Seb couldn’t tell. He sighed, then gestured for him to sit, if only to spare the inevitable crick in his neck from looking up at him. After a long moment’s hesitation, Bruno dropped into the opposite chair. Now that Bruno wasn’t snarling in his face, Seb could appreciate how Andrea hadn’t gotten all the looks in the family. Seb wouldn’t drop trou for the broody Italian surfer vibe Bruno had going on, but plenty of women would. Bruno’s tragic history with the ladies really was down to his attitude, a fact multiple family members must have mentioned to him. But then listening hadn’t ever been the guy’s strong suit, in said family members’ opinions.
“My English is no good. But I want to say sorry. For...” Seb’s abs tensed as Bruno mimicked the stomach punch he’d dealt him the week before. “Molto, molto sorry. I was... rabbioso... with my...”
“Andrea.”
“Si, mio cugino. He is molto severo, for long time. Give me many problems.”
“And I suppose you never did anything to deserve them.”
Bruno shrugged in classic Italian style, nowhere near matching the panache of his cousin.
Seb was already done with this apology. “He didn’t hit me. You did. And threatened us all at the calcio match. I don’t care how many ‘moltos’ you add. ‘Sorry’ isn’t good enough.”
Bruno nodded vigorously but grit his teeth, still the lion in the lamb suit.
“Vina, she tell me you persuadere Andrea to... sell auto to me.”
That made Seb straighten in his seat. “He took my advice, you mean?”
“Si. Vina say. So I sorry. I don’t like you are ricchione, but you are good ricchione.”
“Do I want to know what that means?”
“You know...” He performed a crude gesture Seb didn’t particularly want to interpret.
“Right.” The last drop of Seb’s patience evaporated in the heat of his anger. No amount of responsibility was going to make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear, and his family had been learning that the hard way. He almost regretted his advice to Andrea, but at least Bruno would be out of his hair for a while. “I care nothing about what you think of me or my life, considering how much you tend to get violently drunk and assault strangers. But in the spirit of my late husband, here’s some advice: You’ve been given another chance. Don’t fuck it up.”
To his surprise, Bruno laughed. “You also smart ricchione. I do like you say.”
Seb countered with a shrug. “Time will tell.”
Bruno smacked the table; Seb shuddered. The brute raised two pacifying hands, muttering further apologies in Italian. Seb suspected if he looked up “bull in a china shop” in the dictionary, he’d find Bruno’s picture. If the guy had a kinder disposition, it might be almost cute; instead his clumsiness only worsened his adult temper tantrums.
Seb forced a smile on his face, desperate for him to leave. Bruno stood, lumbered over to Seb’s side, again emphasizing the difference in their positions. Seb leaned away, avoiding the hand Bruno sought to place on his shoulder. When Bruno instead proffered that hand for him to shake, Seb desperately wanted to protest, refuse, anything. His obliviousness to Seb’s discomfort was another strike against him. No wonder Bruno’s ex-girlfriend leapt at the chance to bed Andrea after suffering this oaf.
Seb stared at his hand much longer than necessary but saw no other option. He gave it a quick shake.
“Bene.” At least one of them was satisfied. “I see you in Amalfi, Signor Osakay.”
Seb couldn’t think of anything he wanted to be less true.
“Not if I see you first,” he muttered, signaling to his waiter for a refill on the wine.
By the time the witching hour struck, Seb pushed the crumbs of his second slice of torta caprese around his plate with the tines of his fork. He occasionally glanced at the stairs but found more solace in the black void of the view. The glass reflected the bright goings-on behind him like an early film screen, a busy shadow play of motion and oversized gestures set to a jazzy soundtrack. Fabiana’s swung with the verve of a Gatsby party while Seb sat at the edge of the dock, pining for the green light across the lake. But was Henry or Andrea his Daisy? Seb always thought Gatsby should give up the ladies and shack up with Nick, anyway.
With the toll of a distant bell, the countdown had begun. One hour till the hydrofoil he had arranged to bring him back to the mainland cast off, ten until he had to leave for the airport, twelve before his flight to Rome, fifteen before he took off back to a drizzly late September in Montreal. Seb burrowed into his armchair, the acid burn of this second rejection souring his stomach and spinning his head. He had honestly thought Andrea would come. Though he couldn’t be certain whether the roulette wheel of fate had spun in his favor with so many variables—Red or black? Red or black? Come on, red!—he wasn’t prone to self-delusion. Andrea had known where he was in Sorrento for the past four days. The only variable still in play here was Seb’s bullheadedness.
He’d bet on red and lost. Time to cash in his chips.