In the following story, all of the characters are totally fictive and the setting is real. For whomever it would be illegal, immoral or prohibited for any other reason whatsoever to read a story about love between two young men is kindly requested to refrain from continuing. A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at marin.giustinian@laposte.net. This being said, I hope you enjoy the tale.
SOMETHING MORE
by Marin Giustinian
Edinburgh, Scotland - Lake Como, Italy - Mallaig, Scotland - Boston, USA -- 1949/50
When I was a boy at Merchiston Castle School, I was totally overwhelmed when our art teacher in fourth form had us study Michelangelo's works. The beauty of the sculptures, paintings, and even the architecture of this genius fascinated me. When I learned he also wrote poetry, sonnets dedicated to a young nobleman, Tommaso dei Cavalieri, I decided to study more about the Italian Renaissance!
The following year, our English master in Fifth Form gave us a brilliant lecture on Shakespeare's Italy and his sonnets dedicated to a certain W. H. (according to recent studies, it was probably William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke). Those sonnets too went straight to my heart. He also spoke to us about Italy in English literature, be it Shakespeare of course, but also in English poetry with the Romantics such and Shelly, Byron, Keats, just to mention the most well known.
When I came of age to study at the University of Edinburgh, I chose to major in English of course, and once I would achieve the level to write a Ph.D. thesis, I would undertake an extensive study of the Italian influences on our literature.
Five years later, I presented my idea of a thesis to my supervisor. He had me limit my thesis to the Romantics and my subject was accepted.
It was on a certain Wednesday afternoon early in June. I had an appointment again with him. As I was waiting in the hallway for my supervisor to finally arrive, I took a glance at the post-graduate bulletin board and noticed something that immediately caught my attention.
"Count Andrea Torelli seeks a tutor for his sixteen year old son. The young man speaks fluent English, but must master written English and review his basic Humanities for entry in an American College. Presence required from September 1, 1949 to July 15, 1950. Textbooks provided. Room and board furnished in the Villa Torelli on the shore of Lake Como. All travel expenses are paid and a weekly wage of £10, starting upon arrival is offered. Send resumé and letter of motivation to the following address, etc."
I ripped the note off the bulletin board and stuffed it in my pocket for further investigation once I was back home. The opportunity to work on my thesis, living in an aristocratic family's manor house on the prestigious Lake of Como, and royally paid to boot, sounded like a great scheme! Little did I imagine that something more was in store for me.
I wrote to his Lordship with my resumé, credentials and a photographic portrait attached. I received an answer two weeks later requesting an appointment for a telephone conversation. I made arrangements to receive a call at the university and wired Count Torelli the number, hour and date I could speak with him.
I was quite nervous when the phone finally rang. Contact was made and I spoke with the father. Count Torelli spoke excellent English and filled me in on details. His son's name was Timoteo. His mother was from Boston. His spoken English was quite fluent. He needed to work on writing and reading proficiency. His mother wanted him to attend Boston College the following year. The Count then questioned me on my likes and dislikes, my attitude concerning home teaching, etc. My answers seemed to give satisfaction. To conclude, Count Torelli asked me if I could come the last week of August. I should feel free to leave if either one of us wasn't satisfied before signing a very simple contract. I agreed.
My university supervisor as well as my parents were thrilled over the news and thought it would be an excellent experience. I mailed Count Torelli my date of departure. By return mail I received my airplane ticket to Milan via London, spending the night at the airport hotel in Paris, and the following morning, a flight to Milan. I had never flown in my life!
I decided to go spend July alone in our family bothy in a secluded seaside cove two miles beyond Mallaig station. I needed peace and quiet to ponder over the adventure of an academic year in Italy. I was excited and terrified at the same time. I was also obsessed about my wardrobe, what to pack, what books to carry and others to order to tutor my young ward, etc.
I arrived on time at Milano-Linate airport, claimed my bags, went through customs and police formalities to be met by the family chauffeur, Giulio, who was holding a sign 'Mr. Winthrop'.
He drove me to the Villa Torelli in a very elegant and apparently brand new, silver Lancia Aprilla automobile. The drive took about an hour and a half but the road between Como and the Villa Torelli, along the lakeshore, was fabulously beautiful. I had to rub my eyes and realise that I was finally in Italy!
I was completely keyed up with a thousand butterflies in my stomach as we pulled through the monumental gates of the Villa Torelli. That was just the start of a series of eye-opening marvels awaiting me.
I was heartily greeted by the Count in the entrance hall of his home. His slight Italian accent was quite charming as well as his general allure!
He was dressed in a casual linen suit and was impressively handsome with his semi-long wavy hair, slight moustache and silver temples. His silk pastel tie matched the colour of the handkerchief falling from his breast pocket. The gentleman was in perfect harmony with his sumptuous, noble surroundings.
From a British point of view, it wouldn't be too far off if I said that the seventeenth century villa was a moderate sized palace. From the outside, it was just a big cube-shaped house, but inside the high ceilings, the ornate decoration, the crystal chandeliers and the very evocative baroque frescos on the walls were unbelievably graceful. A magnificent, marble staircase leading to what I assumed as the gallery leading to the bedrooms rose directly from the main hall. A maid suddenly appeared, seized my bags and flew up the stairs, as if in a whirlwind.
"I'm glad to meet your Lordship, and thank you again for covering my expenses..."
"My name is Andrea and I shall call you Terrence. Is that understood? First things first! You must be famished after such a terrible voyage! Come, you must eat something before we go fetch Timoteo and his mother with her maid, shopping as usual!" he said, pulling me across the vast entry hall into a smaller, formal dining room.
I had no time to say anything as I gawked here and there at the profuse decorations. I was already in the world of my poets!
I startled when Count Andrea shouted through a door, "Maria, Veloce! Ci porti qualche cosa da mangiare!"
He then turned to me, "I don't know what she'll bring. If you don't like, we send it back to the cook!"
Hardly a moment later, a lively girl in a maid's uniform rushed in bearing an ice bucket with a bottle of wine and two glasses on a silver tray.
"Grazie, Maria!" and then again to me, "A good glass of frizzantino to begin with will do you good."
"Frizzantino?..."
"A light white wine from one of my vineyards."
He poured me a tall, crystal glass on stem, then one for himself and lifted it saying, "Cheers!"
"Yes," I stuttered, still a bit disoriented, "Cheers..."
"Tell me, how was your trip. Planes are so noisy and bumpy. Traveling today is terrible! Crowds of people, bad service... how did you survive?"
Before I could utter a word, a silver platter piled with sliced meats, bread and fruit arrived.
"Have a seat, Terrence! Buon appetito! So, tell me everything!"
In such a flurry of words, new sights, such elegant informality, in fact everything was so totally new to me, I sort of stalled...
"You're right. Don't talk. Eat! We'll talk in the boat. Timoteo's very impatient to meet you. He will be pleased to see how really beautiful -- in English you say handsome don't you? -- Handsome you are. Better than in photo! Proprio bello, sei!"
I managed to tell him that the trip went fine and the drive with Giulio, quite a treat. He started to tell me some about his son Timoteo, how delicate and high strung he is. He made me understand that in fact he was a late bloomer and more of a poet than a soccer player.
"He was very unhappy in the Catholic boarding school he attended in Como. Ma! Intelligentissimo! Very, very smart! You will see. It is not just a proud father saying that! Well, let's go! We'll pick up a coffee at the bar in Bellagio."
And up and away we rushed down to the private dock on the lake where a magnificent, varnished mahogany motor launch was moored. It was just like the pictures I'd seen of the water limousines in Venice. It gleamed in the bright springtime sun, idly rocking in the small wavelets of the lake. Andrea literally leapt into the boat and started the motor. I was a little less intrepid as I cautiously stepped in. Andrea had already untied the lines and I nearly fell as he hit the throttle. The motor sped us away with a deep throaty roar. Another brand new experience!
"You like?" Andrea shouted as we went streaking across the water. The Villa Balbinello passed in a wink, then the town of Bellagio came into view and fifteen minutes later we were tying up in a little port at the foot a very charming and apparently posh, little town.
"Lets go get our coffee. We always meet here."
We went into an elegant café by the port.
"What will you have, Terrence? A cappucino? The British adore cappucino!"
I nodded, smiling, not knowing what a cappucino was.
The Count ordered. I was looking around, admiring everything as the cups were being put on the counter. Then Timoteo rushed in, "Ciao Papa!" and turning to me, he suddenly became very formal, "Mio Maestro?"
"Si! In English, Timoteo!"
"Very glad to meet you, Mr. Winthrop. Welcome to Lake Como," he said obviously having rehearsed the scene.
I almost gasped at the angelic looks of the lad! If perfection could be embodied in one young man, it was in him, indeed! Then I saw a very extravagant hat on the head of a very extravagantly dressed lady, followed by a maid in uniform carrying several boxes and bags.
"So this is our brilliant tutor for my little devil!" exclaimed Madame, in her very pronouced, Bostonian accent, holding out her hand, "Annabelle Hamilton-Torelli, enchanted."
I took her hand, bent as if to kiss it, and stated, "Terrence Winthrop, Madame."
So there they were, all three, plus the maid, all looking at me. I felt a bit intimidated under such intense observation. I had barely slept during the night at the hotel and I was emotionally exhausted, feeling terrible in my wilted shirt and tie!
Having been interruped by the arrival of Countess Torelli, I turned back to my future ward and said, "I'm quite glad to meet you, too, Tim... May I call you Tim?"
He sort of giggled and replied, "If you wish, Sir. I don't mind."
"And you can call me Terrence, like your father does."
He glanced at his father who nodded, then at his mother who was smiling at me, never blinking an eye. She answered for him saying, "Of course he can, Terrence. You know we are rather informal in the family. Aren't we, my dear Timothy? I'm sitting down! Those horrible cobblestones in the streets here are a disaster for my high heels and my feet are killing me!"
She ordered her coffee as we drank ours. Tim had grabbed a tramezzino on the counter and was devouring it as only a healthy teen can do.
We made some polite small talk. In spite of everything, I felt quite comfortable. But then an irrepressible yawn took hold of me and as I fought it, covering my mouth, Timoteo commented, "If you can't fight it, Terrence, yield to it! Mom! Dad! Come on. We must take Terrence home to rest some, otherwise he might fall asleep right here!"
From that moment on, I realised that my angel-faced ephebe was, in fact, a very keenly tempered young man of determination!
Once back in the boat, Madame tucked the maid and her burden in the back. Andrea and I stood side-by-side holding on to the windscreen as Tim drove us out of the port and into the lake. The wind in my face woke me up a little, but also the way Tim handled the boat impressed me. He asked his father to take the wheel as we eased up into the boat house and just before the launch touched the dockside, Tim jumped ashore, fended the boat away from the edge, grabbed the line his father tossed him and like a dance routine, perfectly moored us to quay. Not a word was said. It was a very beautiful illustration of how they bonded. Tim then helped the maid, with all her parcels, out of the boat. As we were crossing the lawn, Tim came up to me, saying, "I'll show you to your quarters, Terrence. Just follow me!"
"That's right, son! After all, he is your guest!" stated Andrea, "See you for dinner, Terrence."
Madame and her maid had vanished somehow. I followed Tim upstairs to the very spacious room I was given. There was an equally spacious ensuite bath.
"There, you can rest up, unpack and if you need anything, you just jot it down on the pad there by the bed and I'll give it to Flavio. You can also pull on this," he said, indicating a velvet sash hanging with a tassel on the end by the bed, "Flavio is our valet. He will come and take the note for me to translate. He speaks very little English, but if you show him things, he can understand, like 'draw me a bath' or 'help me dress'. I'll call him to help you unpack."
I couldn't stop him as he jerked the sash.
"But I don't need his..."
"He will be hurt if you don't let him help you! You must get used to it. You'll see, he's really nice and he will keep your quarters very tidy, handle your laundry and even shave you and wash your back."
Flavio was indeed a decent looking young man, obviously of local country stock. He didn't really look at ease in his valet's uniform and was very formal with me. Tim introduced us telling him how I should be treated. The fellow nodded, made a slight bow and immediately went to the bathroom and started filling the tub. I had opened my suitcase when he came out of the bathroom and he darted over and began unpacking it. No way to stop him. He went back in the bathroom. Tim said he would see me later and left. Flavio stood by the bathroom door, obviously waiting for me to undress and follow him. I told myself, "Don't fight it! Let it happen... if that's how they do it here, who am I to refuse?"
I pulled my tie off and Flavio rushed up and began unbuttoning my shirt. I ended up stark naked walking behind my valet. I slipped into the scented bubble bath. I couldn't remember the last time someone else bathed me. At any rate, this time was total bliss! My fatigue melted as Flavio scrubbed my back and massaged my shoulders. The best was when he shampooed my head.
He then sponged me all over -- and I mean ALL over. Then he invited me to stand and with a tall, tin pitcher full of warm water, he rinsed the suds off. When he saw I was totally erect, he smiled and nodded his approval. I must have blushed as I stepped out and he touched my chin, making me understand that he could shave me. I nodded 'no' and pointed to myself, letting him know that I preferred doing it myself. He bowed again and backed out of the bathroom, leaving me, at last, alone. I felt brand new! I shaved the few stray whiskers I had, splashed on some cologne and stretched out on the bed, wondering where I really was, relishing the fact that I didn't know! I admitted to myself that I was actually loving every moment!
I must have dozed off a few minutes when the slanting sun shone in on the bed and on me. I changed into some clean clothes and went back down to admire the view over the lake. The boats coming and going added a touch of life to the scene.
Yes, the lake was not only beautiful, but I felt it was a way of life. Harmony seemed to reign in this kind of out-of-the-world atmosphere. The highly aristocratic setting made things seem terribly simple. However, that very evening, I was led to realise that it wasn't always the case!
Tim saw me and came running across the lawn to join me. "Che bello!" he exclaimed, "You look like a movie star!"
I felt flattered.
"Tell me, Tim, now that we're just the two of us, I would like to know what you expect of a tutor. Do you really need tutoring? Your English seems up to par and I'm sure the marks you had in school were good. If it's not being too nosey, could you tell me why you refuse to return to study in your boarding school?"
"The Jesuit teachers were not very polite and my classmates were cruel. I was harassed all the time. They picked on me about being half American. We lived in Boston up until 1945. In school there, they picked on me for being half Italian. You see, school isn't my thing, neither here nor there. In the States, they laughed about my father. Here it was about my mother. You've seen her. She really doesn't fit in here and my father has too much class to fit in with the regular Americans of my mother's family circles. As most middle class Americans, she has a tendency to look down on us. She really doesn't have any class at all and yet she thinks she's superior. My father made her the mother of a future Count, me! And a Countess out of her to boot, but I don't think she realises what both of those things really mean. However, she's really happy with our money! The Torelli family is one of the rare, non-fascist, noble families that weren't impoverished by the war. Our fortune dates from the Renaissance. Fortunately my ancestors did their banking in Switzerland, just over the mountains, there. As you see, we are wealthy. But money isn't what we value the most. I was in the 'best schools', both in Boston and in Como, but the bourgeois mentality of the supposedly 'upper' class disgusted me. So I thought the most elegant thing to do was to leave them in their uncouthness. Therefore, I left. There! Did I correctly satisfy your curiosity?"
"I see..."
"So... to answer your first question, here is what I expect of you. I expect you to make me understand things I can't understand just living here. I always seem to want something more than what is at hand! What do you expect of me?"
"I simply expect you to follow me, accompany me as I lead you into the world of literature, of things you must study, in English, for the entry exam to Boston College you have to write next year in June. You speak well, but as you say yourself, you need to study written English too. You will read English authors, in English, and we shall discuss each book. You must learn the English vocabulary for mathematics, biology and chemistry and we shall review those matters together. You must learn American history and its relationship to the world today, etc. Then of course, there's Philosophy. I think you have everything to learn down that line. So, those are the realms through which I shall guide you... and also, if you are willing, I should very much like for us to become friends."
As I was talking, I hadn't noticed that Tim's father had joined us and was listening. I was surprised when he said, "All of that seems perfect for me! And for you, Tim?"
"That sounds like a lot..."
"So, I guess we can draw up a contract tomorrow," stated Andrea.
"If you need extra thought or if you need to question me further, please don't hesitate," I replied.
"Terrence, I feel good energy between you and my son. That's enough for me. You are very 'l'uomo corretto', the correct man for us, as we say. I trust what I feel."
I turned to Tim and asked, "Do you agree with your father? Should we draw up an agreement on what I told you already?"
Tim looked at me in the eyes, tilted his head and said, "I have one very important question to ask before we shake hands and close negociations. Do you know how to row standing up?" then with a mischievous grin on his face he stated, "If not, Terrence, I can teach you!"
"No, I don't. So that way we can start by me being the pupil of my pupil!" I exclaimed laughing.
"So why don't we begin now?" Tim retorted, "We only dine at eight!"
I stood, pulled off my tie, and said, "Let's go!"
The 'lucia' is the typical rowboat of Lake Como. It's a very sleek, double ended skiff, usually made of larch and often with a canvas cover stretched over bow staves as in a gypsy wagon. This provides shelter from the rain and shade from the sun. When not in use, the canvas is rolled up on top of the staves. As in Venice, the skiff is rowed, standing up, facing the bow. The movement can be quite graceful, almost like walking. It's a radical change from the way we row in Britain. There we're sitting, facing the stern and pulling on the oars, breaking our back. With the 'lucia', you push the oars, not only with your arms, but also with the whole body leaning forward.
At first it was rather scary standing in a small boat that was moving under my feet. Once Tim began his very excellent explanations, my reflexes kicked in and I forgot I was on water. I watched him as he showed me how to handle the two oars, pushing to the last extension of the arms. Then it was my turn to do it. Since I was up front, Tim had me turn around and corrected me from behind. After a few awkward attempts I began to get the knack of it. My coordination was harmonising some and suddenly, I felt us surge forward. Tim had joined me rowing as we picked up a nice lively little speed together.
"Faster! Terrence! If we practice we could win the regatta next spring!" shouted Tim as he paced me like a coxswain! It was fun, but after twenty minutes or so at that rhythm, my hands were burning. I was drained and unable to hold the oars. I dropped myself down on the bench, panting.
"Well done, Terrence! I'll take us back."
"Thank you, captain!" I said, limply stashing the oars and saluting him as he rowed alone. I turned around on my bench and admired his movements. If he didn't have the oars in hand, I could have sworn he was dancing! The sun was glowing in his blond hair, glistening on his moist lips and the delicate perspiration pearling on his forehead made him even more luminous. I found myself hoping that my ward would be as intelligent as he was becoming!
"So how was your first time rowing standing up, Terrence?" asked Andrea, coming down to join us at the wharf, with a glass of wine in his hand.
"Strenuous! Your son is one determined young man! It's a job keeping up with him!"
"It's just a beginning, Terrence. I count on you to keep him under control... not too much, but just enough."
"Don't worry, Andrea, I really take to people with character!"
I looked around for Tim. He had disappeared.
"You'll then take to him a lot. That I can tell you. Join me for a little appertivo before dinner? I need to fill you in on a few delicate things concerning the family before dinner, if you don't mind."
"Very well, Andea."
We retired to the study. Andrea poured me a glass. He invited me to sit, and began by reminding me of the dates and circumstances concerning Timoteo.
"When Mussolini took over here in 1922, our family was not favourable to his vision of Italy. I was sent to boarding school in Switzerland and then to America for college in 1932. There I met Annabelle. She was the perfect debutante and I was a very randy young man, enjoying the freedom of student life on campus."
"Were you in Boston College?"
"Yes."
"So that's why Timoteo must go there now."
"His mother insists on him studying where he was conceived. You see, Annabelle and I were obliged to marry because Timoteo was on his way. He was born in June, 1932. My father said it would be better for me to not return yet to Italy. Threats of war were raging in Europe in Europe and it would be safer for me and my little family to remain in Boston."
"I'm beginning to understand when Tim spoke about living in America."
"Exactly! In 1945, Annabelle, Timoteo, twelve at the time, and I finally came home, here. Annabelle never really accepted the move. So there, you have the picture. This can explain some my son's attitude and his schooling difficulties because of his background."
"Thank you very much, Andrea. Now I know a bit better where I am... and what I have to do with Tim. Could you excuse me now? I really must freshen up before dinner. I want to be presentable for my first dinner at your table!"
"Of course! We'll be in the drawing room, expecting you around eight."
"Eight it will be."
I returned to my room, sponged off and changed into dinner attire. I was still thinking about Tim's youth. It really must not be simple for him!
I adjusted my bow tie, hoping to not be too formal, but I remembered what my mother taught me: it's better to upgrade the standard than to be under par.
When I entered the drawing room, Tim was in a blazer with a white shirt and tie. Annabelle was stunning. A little too much, I thought, but American taste and Italian style, combined with seemingly unlimited amounts of money can do that, I supposed. As she poured me a glass of 'frizzantino', she overdid it really too much, asking me in a cloud of cigarette smoke, "Please, Terrence, tell us some more about yourself. Your studies, your family in Edinburgh. I love that city! It's so... how can I put it? So... historical. Yes, that's it, historical and intriguing. I suppose with all that fog..."
"The fog is more for London, Madame. Further north we have more wind."
"Oh! That's right! Everything's so close over here. London, Edinburgh... it's all the same to me! Ha! Cheers!" she exclaimed, raising her glass of wine in one hand and crushing her lipstick stained cigarette butt in the ash tray with the other.
She babbled on some more as Andrea changed to drinking Fernet. I tried to tell her more about my research concering the Italian influence on our best poets, but it was to no avail. During this time, Tim just sulked a little in his chair, obviously waiting for dinner to be begin. We were saved by a very solemn groom suddenly appearing in the door, announcing, "La cena è servita."
Tim jumped up and we all filed into the dining room. I was seated beside him with Annabelle and Andrea at each end. I noticed that Andrea was a bit quieter than usual. First course was served. I tried to listen to Annabelle but her conversation was so abundantly boring I just smiled barely listening. I didn't mind, because that way I didn't have to talk and could enjoy the fabulous food and wine. Second course came. Andrea didn't eat much but kept his wine glass full. Tim was polite as a prince during the main course up until Annabelle pontified, "Whatever they say, I can certify that Italy is a loser's land. You know, Terrence, sometimes I miss Boston so much. I'm so glad Timothy wants to go and study there. I hope he'll realise that the American way of life is the best and that he stays after graduation. He'll have a wonderful future cut out for him there as alumni of Boston College. Don't you think so, Andrea?"
"Sei stupida..." he stuttered, obviously drunk.
"Mother! I don't agree with you. I don't WANT to go study in Boston. It's because I HAVE to study in Boston, because of you. However, I refuse to hear you state that Italy is a loser's land! It's my father's land and I love it! I'm a Torelli! Don't forget!"
"Nonsense, Timothy! You were American until your voice changed! Red, white and blue, apple pie Yankee! Never forget it! Do you remember all the Italian immigrants in the hovels of Boston. Why were they there? And after all, if we Americans didn't come here to defend Europe, everybody here would be bending under Hitler's madness right now!"
"That's not true! Britain and the Commonwealth fought as much as the Americans. Not true, Terrence?"
I had to nod yes.
"And it was the Red Army of the Soviet Union that crushed the Nazis. I admit that the USA did a lot, but it wasn't America alone that freed us from the Nazis. History has it that the USSR gave the final blow. I pray that Italy finds the path to communism!"
"Oh my God, Timothy! Shut up! That's pure insanity! I apologise to you, Terrence, for having to put up with such trash in my son's mouth. I count on you to clean up his mind, and you, Andrea, I forbid you to discuss your political bullshit with him again. Good night!"
She stood, huffed and tossed her napkin in the plate before making a very bad, theatrical exit, trying to look like an offended lady.
"I'm sorry, Terrence, but sometimes she's... she's a bit touchy," slurred Andrea, "I don't know why she brought up the same old subject of white, protestant, Anglo-Saxon American superiority again. Maybe she just wanted to let you know where she stands to justify Timoteo's going to Boston College. Sometimes, it's quite embarrassing."
"Let's talk about something else, can we please, Papa?"
I retired to my room, undressed and crawled into my enormous bed, trying to wrap my mind around the rather chaotic situation in which I found myself!
Tim will be seventeen on the 25th of June. This will be the date of his departure for Boston, thus ending his secondary schooling. His mother demands that Tim attend a very posh college and hopefully integrate into the 'Fabulous American Way of Life'. His grandparents were willing to look after him. Tim isn't very enthusiastic over the idea but he obeys and his father doesn't seem to have enough character to oppose her.
So, getting back to the facts, in conclusion, Tim and I must prepare his entrance exam by next July. That's the job. For the rest, it's none of my business. I really must remember that!
Poor boy!
Now, I'm dead tired and shall try to sleep, hoping I don't get lost in all these sheets and pillows!
I overslept some, but when I woke up, I was back to my good old self! As Tim told me to do, I jerked on the sash and a minute later, Flavio peeped in through the door.
I remembered how to say: cappucino e croissant, Flavio, like Tim taught me.
"Subito Signor Terrensse" he replied and disappeared. When I came out of the bathroom, the breakfast was on the table. I ate, dressed and rushed down to find Tim and his father in the drawing room. No sign of Annabelle around.
"Good morning, Terrence!", sang out Tim as he stood to greet me.
Andrea, fresh as a rose, added, "Perfect timing. We were just talking about you. In spite of the incident at dinner, do you still want to stay with us?"
"As long as you let me remain outside of your disagreements, of course, I shall stay. I owe it to you and to Tim, above all."
Tim beamed!
"Perfect! Can we discuss the articles of the contract? Once we come to an agreement, I'll dictate it in Italian to my secretary and have it cleared by my lawyer."
"I'm ready if you are!"
Andrea continued, "Have a seat, here's what I've thought useful to write down : You shall pass the license or 'patente nautica' for the motor boat so you can use it with Tim, whenever necessary."
Tim interrupted, saying, "I'll teach you, Terrence, and go with you for the exam."
"Fine for me."
Andrea went on, "You can study together in the mornings and save the afternoons for sports like rowing practice for the regatta..."
"So I'm rowing in the regatta?" I asked.
Andrea looked up saying, "That's what Tim told me..."
I looked over at Tim and he shrugged with a sheepish smile... Of course I melted. Impossible to resist!
"If Tim said so..."
"There, it's noted. You can have weekends off and evenings after five to work on your thesis. Does that suit you?"
"Very well."
"Annabelle doesn't think it appropriate for you to have any visitors in the Villa. Is that a problem for you?"
"None at all..."
"Are you sure? What if you meet a charming girl you'd like to entertain in your room?"
"That's very improbable, Andrea. I'm taking my time. I'm not interested, for the time being, in courtship."
"Excellent!" commented Andrea as Tim smiled at me with a funny look on his face.
"I continue. We shall give you your wages at the beginning of each week, in Italian Lire."
"Very good."
"Of course, the room we gave you will be yours for the length of your stay and our lunch table is yours. We can arrange for you to have your evening meals either in the library or in your room. It could be easier for you, working on your thesis."
"It's perfect for me."
"And for Tim's studies, you must give me the list of books I should tell my secretary to order. Do we add anything else?"
"Yes, just one more thing. I would like to return home to Edinburgh for Christmas and New Years. Is that possible?"
Andrea looked at Tim who nodded and then at me, "I see no inconvenience and apparently Tim neither, so permission granted, at your own expense."
"Of course!"
Then Andrea suddenly said, "I nearly forgot! Last but not least, I shall put in a clause saying that in case of dissatisfaction for any valid reason whatsoever, either you or I can cease collaboration with two weeks prior notice. Oh, yes, also, I'll provide for you to be insured while with us in case of any needs of a doctor.."
He handed the paper to me. I read through it and gave it back to him saying, "Nothing to add, Andrea. Thank you!"
"I thank you, Terrence!
"So, Tim, do we start tomorrow?"
"Can we wait till Monday? I should like to show you around some so you'll feel more at home here. We can go over to Bellagio, Tremezzo and even visit Varenna..."
"Excellent idea, Tim! I approve," added Andrea.
"Then Monday it shall be!"
I thoroughly enjoyed our two days of tourism! Everything is so beautiful here. I can understand that writers, musicians and artists thrive here.
So, after play comes the work. We decided to work in the library of the Villa. The presence of books, old and new, surrounding us on the shelves, and the Venetian chandelier glittering over us seemed to smile on our project of study.
We started by having him review what he already knew. Of course, I couldn't judge his proficiency in Italian, however his written English was just close to disaster. His Latin was fine. So was his knowledge in Geography. European history had to be studied some more and American history had to be totally taught and learned. His knowledge of basic science was up to par and his mastering of basic mathematics seemed to be correct. Concerning beginner's Philosophy, he had all to learn!
I followed the programme of the American college entry test for foreign students and assumed the responsibility to teach him advanced English, Philosophy and American History. For the rest, he could handle it alone, with the bibliography and exercises I had in mind for him.
Sparks started to fly when, introducing Philosophy, I asked him, "Tim, do you think and if so, how do you think?"
"What are you talking about? Have you gone mad, Terrence? Of course I think! I'm not a moron!"
"That I know, but are you thinking about what you're blathering out to me right now? Or are you just indulging in a childish tantrum because you feel attacked?"
He suddenly went pale, then glared at me, his nostrils flaring. I didn't lower my eyes and tenderly waited for him to answer. He stood as if to walk out.
"Tim, you can be seated."
"And what if I don't want to?"
"Don't you THINK it would be better for you to sit and finish the lesson we haven't even started? I THINK it best you respect our gentleman's pact to work well together, don't you?
"Well, I THINK you are hired to give me answers and not to pry into my head!"
"I'm hired to help you become the best of yourself, nothing more! And as far as answers be concerned, how do you expect anyone to give you answers to questions you have never wondered about? So, I repeat! How do you know if the thoughts you're thinking are really yours and not just habitual or nervous reactions? You say that your mother doesn't think like Italians do? Why? Who is thinking through her then. Do you know who is thinking through you, shaping your mind when you think that it's you who are doing the thinking? I bet you've never thought about that!"
He looked at his knees, not moving.
"So when I ask how do you think, it's not because I already have the answer. My job is to help you understand the world of questions and not answers to questions you don't even imagine. My job is to help you find your own answers, to live your life the way you want and not only the way other people want you to live it. Your life is your own and you only have one -- the one you create and enjoy for yourself! Correct, personal thought is what Philosophy's all about! Now sit down and let's think about that!"
After a good hour of struggle and loyal debate, little by little I saw Tim finding pleasure feeling his mind waking up to personal thought and not just the reactive whimsies he was used to. It even made him dizzy.
"Good God, Terrence! Let's take a break, please. This is wonderful! I love it, but just a little bit at a time. My head is going to explode. Wow! Philosophy is a mind-shattering subject..."
"You're right Tim! We'll continue the subject later."
I stood, opened the window looking out over the lake. Tim stood, stretched and came up behind me to put his hand on my shoulder. I turned. He just smiled at me and then stepped back asking, "What's next?"
"English poetry."
"Great! Do we have time for me to go to the toilet?"
The weeks flew by full of book work, discussions, rowing and work for me on my thesis. The dinners I was invited to partake with the family were cordial, even if I felt from time to time tension between Andrea and his wife.
It was on a Friday that Tim reminded me that I had a license to pass.
"It's my turn to teach you, Terrence. We are going to practice driving the motorboat tomorrow if my father agrees."
He agreed and so did I. I admit, I was a bit scared!
Under the smiling face of Andrea, Tim backed us out of the boathouse, swerved around heading us out into the lake. He then invited me to stand close by. He showed me the throttle, ignition, forward and aft shift. He explained the dials on the dash board giving us oil pressure, fuel level and several other things I didn't really understand. There was the button for the horn and switches for the running lights. I just replied, "Okay..." to his instructions. What else could I say? We idled further into the lake and then he said, "Now you take the wheel."
"Already?"
He stood, leaving the driver's seat empty, nobody at the wheel and promptly reacted, gently, but firmly stating, "I said, take the wheel, so take it, Terrence. Would you like it if I questioned your instructions like that?"
He made a point.
I sat and took the wheel. Suddenly, he shoved the throttle to top speed. We actually shot out of the water like a shark attacking a seal. The boat reared then leveled off, skimming, flying on the ripples. I was petrified, then elated! It felt absolutely wonderful, almost sexy! He then pulled on the wheel making us lurch, then turn, leaning to the side. I immediately put us back on course.
"Well done, Terrence! Good reflex."
I didn't need compliments! I felt like we were ripping through the water. The wind was ferocious and the noise, deafening. Entering the widest part of the lake, we banged through a wave or two. It was fascinating and violent at the same time. This went on for about ten more minutes and he shouted over the roar, "Let's head back home so I can show you how to moor."
I looked back over my shoulder and was absolutely incapable of seeing where home was! He noticed my disarray, laughed and pointed out to me, still shouting loud in my ear, "See the Villa there on the point, Villa Babinello... Villa Torelli is just behind. Turn back and head that way."
I notice a red light blinking on the dashboard. I pointed at it.
He replied, "The motor's heating too much. Slow us down."
I pulled the throttle back, coming down to a slow hum.
"A little faster than that, Terrence," he insisted, shrugging his shoulders as if I were dumb as dirt.
I found a good cruising speed and he jokingly stated, "For a first time, that wasn't too bad. You need to work though. Don't imagine you're already an ace at motor boating... Sir!"
"Thank you, Master. With your brilliant teaching, I'm sure I'll make great progress."
"That you will, my dear Terrence! That was fun. Here, let me take us in. Mooring will be for another lesson!"
"With great pleasure, Tim! Take over!"
As for taking over, that he had already attempted on several occasions. I loved his determination but knew that I had to hold the reins on that young, racy colt for us to succeed our year. I also had to hold the reins with gentle care to not damage and undermine him more than his mother already has.
The splendour of November coloured the shores of the lake. The first woollens were great to feel and the brisk air off the lake was a new sensation. The temperature was beginning to remind me of our Scottish summers!
Tim and I were doing well. He was now very involved in studying, finding it fun to learn. I didn't want to insist too much on his English pronunciation to not offend his mother, but he was the one who brought up the subject as we read some poetry.
"When you read this poem, Terrence, it sounds like music. When I read it, it sounds like I have a cold. Help me pronounce like you do. Keats was English so I should recite his works as he heard it in his mind, shouldn't I."
I complied and only after a few minutes, he caught on to the accent and could actually pass for a 'fake' pupil from Eton. I did take the precaution to say that it wouldn't be appropriate for him to speak like that in his mother's presence.
"Why?"
"It could be felt by her as an offence to your American heritage."
"I couldn't care less for my American heritage! I'm a Torelli and not a Hamilton! There is a difference!"
"So as a Torelli, elegance should rule your behaviour and not your emotions."
A kind of shade suddenly masked his expression, then, after a moment or two of deep reflexion, he timidly looked up at me and uttered, "Thank you, Terrence. I needed to hear that."
"What you've just said, Tim, is extremely elegant of you!" and I couldn't help touching his cheek. He smiled, nudging my hand like a kitten and replied, "You can caress me even more, you know."
Autumn slid into winter. The lake sometimes looked like a Scottish loch as snow covered the mountain tops and mist floated over the waters. I dined with the family about one evening out of four. Annabelle preferred having lunch in her apartments, so tension was thus avoided in my presence.
We were nice and cosy studying by the fire in the library. I was enjoying Tim more and more. He gave me the impression that it was the same for him.
One day at lunch, the question of Christmas came up. Andrea told me that he and Annabelle planned to spend the holidays in Paris.
"Tim asked me to ask you if he could go to Edinburgh with you. He doesn't want to go with us to Paris."
"Let me talk to him about it."
We talked it over and he accepted my conditions. It was settled. He was coming with me to Edinburgh for Christmas as a guest in my home. Andrea paid all the expenses.
We decided to do the whole trip by rail with a stopover in London for a night. Flying in winter can be a hassle.
My parents fell in love with Tim and Tim fell in love with Edinburgh. I discovered my city with new eyes as I showed Tim around. It was fun. We had a lot of laughs. One evening, we went 'out on the town', as we say. I took Tim to my favourite pub on Grassmarket. Of course it was boisterously noisy and off limits for my underaged mate, but I knew the owner who winked at me and gave us a table close to the back door. I have never seen my ward laugh so much! One of my old university mates showed up and offered us round! He kept on exclaiming in Scottish, "He is sae bonny!"
"What does he say?" Tim yelled above the general noise of the place.
"He's complimenting how handsome... how beautiful you are, and he's so right, Tim!" I yelled back, not realising that this was the first time I said such a thing to him.
He leaned in smiling at me and bumped his head against mine, screaming, "You too, Terrence!"
"Baith o' yer bonny, mate!"
I now understood why people in the train and on the streets here smile at us as we walk by. I actually felt that I too was handsome with Tim by my side. He does that to me now!
We found a taxi and made our way back home. Once at the top of the stairs, before going to my room and Tim to his, we lingered a moment. Then Tim simply snuggled up to me. I hugged him as he whispered in my ear, "Thank you, my beautiful maestro! I feel so good with you!"
I sort of melted, holding him, for the very first time, real close... close enough to smell in his fair hair the stench of the cigarette smoke from an evening at the pub.
At breakfast, he asked me to tell him more about our bothy on the coast.
"When you talk about it, you have such a dreamy look in your eyes, Terry."
"Would you like for us to go? You must know it's a really primitive place, facing the ocean... no electricity, no running water, just a stream running by, only a footpath to get down the cliff to it. Inside, there's a table and two chairs, a bed and a fireplace -- the extreme opposite of your home on the lake!"
"Oh! Please let's go, Terrence! I'm sure there's something more there than just ascetic austerity! The way you talk about it makes me sure that I must go there too, and go there, of course, with you."
It was decided. We were to leave the day after Christmas. For Tim's gift, I gave him a fleecy Shetland sweater. He gave me a woodsman's knife with a leather sheath. My mother laughed asking if we were going to Canada to hunt bears!
Tim replied, "No Mrs. Winthrop. We're not going to Canada. We're going to Heaven!"
Christmas lunch was a feast! We spent the afternoon snoozing by the fire and before retiring we stuffed our backpacks, double checking everything. I filled my backpack with food and Tim took the rest. We were light since we planned to stay up there only for a few days.
We left on the 7:00 AM train and arrived seven hours later. The walk along the cliffs was magic as always. Tim was speechless! We opened the bothy, lit the fire, and not too long afterwards, it was warm and cozy as could be inside. By 5:00 PM night was falling with stars galore and the moon began peeking up over the water. Tim stayed silent, then spoke up saying, "Terry, listen to the sea deeply breathing at our feet. The lake is so small, almost frivolous, compared to this!"
Inside, the fire crackled in the chimney. The stew I had put in the pot to boil, bubbled along, making us hungry with the smell. We pulled the chairs close to the fire and I poured us each a small shot of the fine Scotch whiskey my father had slipped into my bag. Tim sipped it and began coughing.
"That's really powerful, Terry!"
"The problem is that you get used to it..."
"Is that a problem?"
We both laughed, our cheeks getting redder by the minute. We began shedding our woollens, stoked the fire a little more and sat at the table to enjoy our stew. I must admit, it was absolutely delicious! Tim devoured it, went back for seconds and we finished by dipping our bread in the broth.
Tim burped, excused himself and looked around, a bit worried.
"Where are the toilets?"
"Under the moon, Tim. If you have to leave something, don't worry. It'll disappear."
"What an adventure! 'Madonna, cagare sotto la luna al mare' Something new every day!"
I understood, 'sotto la luna' and 'al mare', meaning under the moon by the sea, and as he stuck a wad of tissue paper in his pocket before going outside, I guessed what 'cagare' meant.
I cleaned up the table and put the kettle on for hot water. Tim came back in and ran over to the fire.
"It's freezing out there! But that was fun anyhow! Can we go to bed now? I'm dead tired."
"Let's wash up first."
"How's that?"
I showed him the tin basin, the sponge and the kettle.
He followed suit as I stripped in front of the fire. He sort of giggled when I started sponging him on the back. He then washed mine and turning to face him, our cocks collided, both of us gloriously erect. He dipped the sponge again and began gently washing my chest, my pits and my belly. Then bathing my pubes, he fondled my balls and finished by pulling back my foreskin. With a broad smile on his face, he gently rubbed beneath.
"Feels good?"
I simply nodded, shivering slightly.
He handed me the sponge and lifted his arms. The lusty tension surrounding us was rich, almost tangible. I began bathing him in return and noticed his cock was drooling as much as mine. I went back to his head and softly wetted his face and neck. Tim put his hands on my hips, edging himself in closer to me. Our slippery cock tips touched as if kissing. Our lips were magnetically drawn to meet. My tongue instinctively slid into his mouth. He gently sucked it even deeper.
Our breathing was laborious. Not a word was uttered. We slid, nude, into bed, and there, in the pounding rhythm of the waves on the narrow strand, our hearts beating as in unison, our kisses lingered and lingered even more. We stroked each other's slick cock until we were quivering on the edge of abandon. Tim hoarsely whispered, "Like I told your Mom, this is heaven... heaven with you, at last... Oh, Terry, take me please! I need you in me!"
The following days, we hiked, we talked, we enjoyed discovering each other's delights. We were lost in love. We mated morning, noon and night. We were insatiable. I thought to myself how right it was Tim to totally awake me, revealing me to myself. Ours was far from being a one way relation! His lips worked miracles all over me. The taste of his semen intoxicated me. He triggered in me what my hidden nature within already knew. I taught him voluptuousness. He taught me recklessness. I tamed him. He drove me wild. Together we discovered the subtle fireworks of merging souls, mingling, glowing deep inside.
We talked about the meaning of what we were experiencing, aware of the fact that we were burning, not only in the delicious flames of rapture, but also in the hellfire of sinful illegality. Our budding love was in the eyes of the law, a crime, and in they eyes of the Church, an eternal damnation -- and we couldn't care less! It was high noon at midnight, summer in midwinter. All reluctance was banished. All our thoughts, acts and hopes, obeying love's command, joined to form just one glaring evidence: Tim and I were born to be and grow together.
"What are we going to become tomorrow, Terry, when we have to leave here?" Tim quietly asked as we stood together looking out the window with a silent tear running down his cheek.
It was accorded that we loved each other, however wild, unnatural and sinful that could be. We agreed that we had to enter into the maze of secrecy, hiding our true feeling for each other, each one playing the role he was assigned to play, be it by society, convention or habit. In fact it wasn't really that complicated. Frustrating, yes, but complicated, no. We were simply henceforth, secret lovers, playing the parts, as in a comedy, of tutor and pupil. For the rest, only God knows what we shall become, what shall become of our love... of our lives.
We returned to Edinburgh for the New Year's celebrations. Tim now shared my bed, returning to his before dawn. Bidding farewell to my parents, we boarded the train for our return to normality. In Paris we wired the Villa to have Giulio meet us in Como. Then after a delicious dinner at the 'Train Bleu' in the Gare de Lyon train station, we boarded our train to Milan and settled into our private sleeper compartment for two. We made torrid love, speeding through the night and slept an hour or two before breakfast was served. Giulio met us telling us that the Count and his wife were not due back for three days. We still had some quality time in store for us!
Tim spent more time writing than before. I had a few problems getting back to my thesis. My life had become a poem, so other poets didn't really seem that imperative anymore.
After making wonderful morning love, Tim rang for Flavio.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm hungry and I don't care if Flavio sees us like this!"
Flavio just smiled as Tim told him to bring up breakfast for two. He bowed and scurried away giggling. At least we knew that he saw nothing to talk about.
"I assure you, Terry, he keeps more than one secret concerning me -- and now concerning us both!"
Tim's parents returned from Paris and the household routine returned to normal. The weeks became months. Winter crept away, leaving the way free for spring to explode. And explode it did! Whenever we were sure to be alone, we stole kisses here and hugs there. Also, with the balmy weather starting to heat up the air, we would linger a bit off shore with the 'lucia' after practicing our rowing. We usually went around the point of the Villa Balbianello, along the wooded shore facing the lake, and there, hidden from the entire world under the canvas covering, we made long, delicious love to each other. Sometimes, rowing back was a bit uncomfortable if we pushed too hard using our gluteal muscles, but loving had become an absolute necessity.
Tim's studies were conclusive and well assimilated.
We didn't win the regatta, but did finish third, which I thought was rather honourable.
Ever since we had become lovers, Tim's behaviour was notably more mature. Andrea commented on it, saying that his son was really growing up fast and thanked me for it!
On the other hand, Annabelle's attitude had become openly hostile to me. I overheard her arguing with Andrea about the influence I had on Tim. It is true that the vibration around us, ever since our trip to Scotland, was quite strong. Surely, her instinct felt the bond Tim and I shared.
She asserted in very crude terms that her son was becoming disobedient, too clever (whatever that meant for her...) and even effeminate. She openly said that it was not normal that I didn't have a girlfriend and that Tim and I spent more and more time together.
"He's turning Timothy into a fucking poof, a queer, a disgusting disgrace to the Hamilton name, Andrea! Do something about it! Having a stranger, a tutor in the house, is your damn idea after all!"
"I remind you dear that he in NOT a Hamilton but a Torelli and he is happy. You should also put it in your bird brain once and for all, not all men need women to be happy. Women do not determine manhood -- no more than I nor Timoteo are in reality determined by you! So, leave those two alone! I have no proven evidence that could alarm me as to their relationship. All you have to do, dear, is SHUT UP!"
At last, I overheard Andrea stand up against Annabelle the Great! She just stormed off spitting out her last drop of poison, "You're just a degenerate rat!"
I did notice that Andrea drank more and more. Sometimes, late into the night their screams and insults echoed through the Villa. One morning as we were alone in the library, Tim admitted that dinners were hell for him and that he was glad to soon leave the house, then he looked up at me with desperate eyes, "But I don't know how I'll survive being away from you, Terry!"
"We'll manage. Don't worry..."
I too was dreading the approaching moment of separation, dreading too that it could mean the brutal death of a dream.
The day before Tim's departure for America we celebrated his seventeenth birthday. I gave him a leatherback edition of Keat's 'Endymion'. He opened the gift with great discretion, thanked me and thanked me even more for the dedicated teaching I had given him. He was the perfect gentleman. Annabelle was nearly correct at dinner. She even made a toast to me saying that it had been a pleasure, but all good things must come to an end... etc.
Tim announced that he wanted to go with me for a night cruise with the motor launch.
"But dear, you have to get up early tomorrow. Are your bags ready?" immediately objected Annabelle.
"Our bags are ready and we don't want to retire. Father, can we leave the table?"
"Of course! Have fun! You know where the keys are. See you in the morning."
I rose, saying, "Good evening Annabelle, Andrea. See you tomorrow."
Tim ran to get the keys and we hurried to the boathouse. We backed the launch out into the lake and sped into the night. As we approached the widest part just north of Bellagio, we cut off the motor and drifted as we undressed.
We sucked each other as if our lives depended on it. In fact, in a certain way, they did depend on it. We wept. We promised to write. We promised to find a way to see each other, either for me to come to America, or he to Edinburgh or any place else for that matter. That excruciating situation of 'wait and see' wrenched my soul. Tim's flowing tears tore out my heart as we sucked each other over and over again. We kissed and sucked until our lips were numb and our semen totally spent. Exhausted and resigned to our fate, we returned to the boathouse and then each to his room.
The following morning, I was like a zombie. After the formalities of good-byes to the staff, then to Count and Countess Torelli, Tim and I climbed into the Lancia and Giulio drove us in silence to the train station in Como.
We boarded and took seats in an empty compartment. There we sat, leaning one against the other, swaying with the train as it rolled to the dreaded moment when I had to get off, take the limousine and fly to Edinburgh, leaving Tim on the train to Genoa, to the ocean liner and to America.
The train came to a stop. I got off. Tim leaned out the window as the train pulled out of the station, waving until out of sight.
It was surgery without anaesthesia.
Boston, July 16, 1950
My dearest Terry,
Your letter was waiting for me in my room when I arrived at my grandparents' home in Boston. The ocean crossing was terribly boring. Life is a total bore without you. I hated traveling in first class. Only old rich Americans at the table or sitting alone in my cabin. I read and reread the poems we worked on. I even wrote a poem about us. When you read it, please be indulgent. I'm not gifted like the poets we studied, but my heart is in every word.
I take my test tomorrow. I almost let myself be tempted to fail it so I could return to Europe. But then, it would be a gigantic offence to you and I can't let my mother have that satisfaction.
I'll write with the results as soon as it's over.
My grandparents are nice. 'Sweet', as they say over here. They really don't seem to know how to behave with me. It's sort of funny in a pitiful way. They keep apologising for not being aristocratic enough. It's fine to not be aristocratic as long as you have some class, like you do. They don't have the slightest touch of class, just like their daughter. Class is rather simple. It's only dignity and respect for others. In fact, it's almost nothing, but it's that little 'nothing' that changes everything. Flavio's a peasant, but he's got more class than anybody in my family over here.
Please, I beg you, keep me posted. I realise now how much I need your letters. Did you do it on purpose or was it just on your hand when you wrote? I'm talking about your cologne. I nearly wept when I scented it, ripping open the envelope. Don't forget to douse a drop of it on the paper each time you write. My grandparents think it's so 'sweet' of you to write!
I love you, Terry!
Tim
P.S. Here's my poem for you. It's in free verse, free like my heart is when I think of you.
Narrow is our bed, immense the horizon beyond the window as dawn's light floods our dampened sheets.
My soul is thirsty for yours. Only your love's offering can quench me as mine spills, thrusting, flowing deep into your humming throat.
I died, flowing deep inside you, as your semen, deep inside me, exploded like a dying star.
With a tear and a smile, I kiss you, Terry!
I'm yours forever!
Edinburgh, July 26, 1950
Dearest Tim,
Thank you so much for your wonderful letter. Congratulations on the poem. I now know it by heart!
"I died, flowing deep inside you, as your semen, deep inside me, exploded like a dying star."
This strophe you wrote is a pure diamond of poetry, so true, so deeply experienced together.
I miss you so much! I miss your kisses, your hugs, your sex and your smile. Since we had to part, I've been dragging myself around, hardly able to find the energy to dedicate myself to work. But don't worry! I've taken a drastic decision. I'm going to go live in the bothy and work on a book of my own. The thesis can wait. I need to write for myself! The book I'm thinking about shall definitely be inspired by our fabulous love story. For the time being, I'm simply getting used to the idea, to your absence, and to my own needs for survival.
Henceforth, you can write to me at the following address.
Terrence Winthrop, Esq. General Delivery Mallaig, Scotland United Kingdom
I'll start by having enough firewood and coal for the winter dumped at the end of the road. I'll wheelbarrow it down and then go into town for groceries and such about three times a week. I plan to send and collect my mail then.
You can easily picture me in the little house where we discovered the flesh of our love for each other. Now, it has, as you often said, "something more". It's a sanctuary where I'll keep our spirit, our love and our hopes alive!
Ever since I made the decision to go there, I'm much better off.
Be assured of my constant affection, Tim! Courage for your college entry.
All my love is in this letter,
Terry
Boston, August 5, 1950
Dearest and only YOU!
I passed the college entrance exam with flying colours! After the test, the examiners told me that I was one of the smartest freshmen they've known. That's your fault! Now I'll have to live up to my reputation!
So you've become a beach bum! I can see you there as if I were with you! You are so fortunate. Here I'm in 'madman's-land'! These Americans are all crazy. The people only think (if they think) about money and sex. They talk about the money and hide the sex! Also, they are all scared to death about communists! Can you imagine? You should hear them rant about the communist conspiracy infiltrating America. They say that a certain senator, McCarthy I think is his name, will save them... They have become paranoid... And there's their war in Korea as if Hiroshima wasn't enough! It makes me sick writing about it. I now understand why my mother's like she is. Everything here is based on what you own, how much you're 'worth' (horrible expression)!, what club and what church do you belong to, etc. It's a sick hoax and the people are gullible enough to compete in everything! They say it themselves, that their life is a rat race! God knows how this country's going to evolve. I fear it will become sicker and more violent in the coming decades, having lost reason and dignity. All I know is that I'll not be a part of it. All I dream about is you, Terry! I dream about putting this stupid ordeal behind me and getting out of here. I shall find you wherever you go so we can be together for good! With you is where I really belong!
I won't be able to receive mail for the next two weeks. With my grandparents, we are driving down to Florida! Can you imagine? It's on the other side of the world! Well, we're going to do it. I'm going to drive their big Buick too. Over here I'm old enough.
As a newcomer, I was introduced to two students from the College. They were like robots, doing the welcoming job. One of the students says he's a 'jock'. That means athletic underwear. You see, the thing that keeps your balls from banging around when you run! Imagine saying you're a jock? A ball cradle! And you should see him with a tie on! A hilariously ridiculous thug! There is no way I'll go out for sports and rowing is out of the question! Can you imagine becoming a volunteer galley slave? Also, I must avoid the craziest thing of all, the Greek houses they call fraternities. That's what the other robot told me about. The guys all have short hair, wear ties and have to be popular! In Italian, 'populare' means vulgar. Here you have to be popular... therefore vulgar... Is that what they mean? At any rate, they look like their smiles have been tattooed on their faces. They only talk about girls and I'm sure they fuck together like rabbits... PHONY! Phony! phony and really not funny!
My mother has refused me permission to live on campus. I've got to stay under her parents' control. Maybe it's better like that. I couldn't imagine having a snob-slob or a jock as a roommate! Vomit!
I can't wait to hear about your life and work in your little heavenly home! Give my love to the bothy's spirit!
You are in your my heart to stay!
Tim
In the following letters, I learned that Florida is the most stupid place on earth, that American highways are boring. Everybody drives under fifty-five and yet they have cars that can go twice as fast. Classes were under way and some are not bad at all. I told him that I'm only in half of heaven in the bothy. The other half is with him. I've started the book but I won't say anything about it yet.
And then hell crept into heaven. One, then two, then THREE weeks went by without an answer. Not a damn word!
I was going crazy! I even tried to phone his father, Andrea, from the post office to have news. No one answered. I gave up saying that if there was a really big problem, he'd find a way to get in touch with me. I was dreading an accident or something horrible like that. My imagination was driving me crazy!
THEN... Then...
It was late in the afternoon. The wind had picked up announcing a late autumn gale. The temperature began to drop. I had just lit the fire to heat some water and keep me company when I heard a sneeze outside followed by a timid knock and the door. The door then opened just enough for a head and a strong gust of wind to pass through.
"Hi, Terry... Can I come in?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin! A thousand things streaked through my mind as I realised it was Tim! My Tim! Here! Now!
"Good God Almighty!"
I ran up to him, yanked the door open, almost knocking him over. I caught him up in my arms and we began laughing. A laugh I had never heard before exploded into space. His, mine, our laugher, our sobs, sobs of joy, rising through our gasps. We danced, slightly out of control, stumbling, holding on to each other,.
I shouted, "GOOD GOD! I DON'T BELIEVE IT!"
"Maybe this will help!" he exclaimed and grabbing my head, he covered my face, my mouth, my neck with kisses, "I'm real and I'm really here, Terry!"
"My goodness!" I was confused with glee. I didn't know where to put myself. Then I spotted just one backpack on the floor.
"That's your only bag?"
"It's all I need, along with you..."
And he pushed me on the bed and fell down on me. We began undressing each other in a kind of bestial fury. Outside, the waves breaking on the rocks filled the moaning wind, laden with spray and streaks of foam. Inside, months of built-up tension exploded as we ravaged each other's mouths, clawing backs, rubbing flesh on flesh. Our rampant cocks raged, desperately seeking refuge in each other's throats. Little did it take us to surrender our souls, feeding one another endless salvos of semen, creamed ecstasy shared like life itself. The storm within was pacified as the storm outside raged on even stronger.
The water in the kettle was humming. Tim rose and went by the fire. His naked beauty in the flickering light of the flames still left me awestruck. He put the kettle on the hearth.
"Don't you need to tell me a few things? We'll bathe you later, and then dine. Come back in bed. Just tell me the essentials. We'll get into details later."
"You're right," he said, cuddling back up to me, "It'll do me good! But I don't want to burden you with stupid family drama!"
"Don't be silly! If you're here, it's because you need to be here and if we're here it's also to heed our needs. You need to tell. I need to hear."
"I understand, Terry. Yes! You're right! Here's what's happened since I wrote. I need to get it out of my system! So! Here goes! My mother surprised us by showing up in Boston two and a half weeks ago. She said she had left my father and was going to file for divorce in the States. Divorce isn't legal in Italy. I knew it would happen one day. So, while I was in class the postman brought one of your letters. She intercepted it, opened and read it. She then snooped around in my room and found your other letters I had put in my treasure box. When I came back, she was in my room, shaking your letters in my face. She tried to confound, humiliate me, dragging you in the mud. She threw your letters on the floor and began stomping them. God was she vulgar, filthy mouthed, uncouth! I screamed back saying she had no right to touch my mail! I cursed back at her, saying she was just a snobbish, shitty wretch, a slut, a nouveau riche idiot and that I was going back home. She said, 'Boston is now your home, Timothy Hamilton! Forget Italy!' God! When she said that, I thought I would vomit... So I said, 'Go to hell! I'm the son of Count Andrea Torelli and I refuse to obey you any longer, even listen to your stupid rantings! Get out of my room and my life! Bitch!' and I pushed her through the door that I was going to slam in her face when my grandfather showed up. He shouted, 'What's going on here?' She threw your letters at him howling, 'Your grandson's a fag and he's threatened me'. She was crazed, shaking, spitting as she blathered. He grabbed her, shaking her by the shoulders, ordering her to calm down. 'Go to your room!' he commanded. She protested. 'Annabelle, BEHAVE! Leave us alone and that's a goddamn order!' I was on all fours, feverishly gathering your letters. He pulled me up, facing him. He calmy asked me if it was true that I was homosexual. I said 'Yes, Sir. I love Terrence Winthrop and if that makes me a homosexual, well then that is what I am'. I told him that I shall always be loyal to you -- and to myself!"
He barely finished that sentence as he choked up, grabbing me, burying his face in my neck.
"I told him that I was going back home, to my real home. He then said, 'That's a wise decision, my boy.' For the first time he was kind to me, and in a certain way, without knowing it, kind to us!"
Tim began sobbing again. I held him tight in my arms as he gasped and heaved. Then once he had gathered his wits, he continued, this time with a certain poise.
"Then she flew back like a banshee screaming, 'You'll pay me for that, both of you!' Grandfather simply turned to her and slapped her so hard she fell on the carpet. She finally crept away, for good. Then my grandfather hugged me. I was again vomiting my tears, like a forsaken babe, I just sobbed, 'Mommy, mommy please... ' Then I remember grandfather saying, 'I'll handle your mother. Come with me.' He led me to his office."
Tim thought, sighed and continued.
"He held me by the waist as we went down the stairs. He opened his safe and gave me seven hundred dollars in cash, a small fortune! Then he said, 'That should get you home. Tell your Dad to reimburse me if he wants. Now go pack your bags. When you're finished, call a cab. Here's the number. You wait for it outside. Have the driver take you to the station, find a hotel and when you're rested up some, leave for New York as soon as possible. There you can find a plane. Be careful, boy. I thanked him. Then he said, 'By the way, I don't approve of you being homosexual, but I have to admit, if it's your soul that's speaking through you, then you have the right to be whoever you really are. Good-bye.' He then caressed my cheek, turned and walked out of the door. Like in a nightmare, I went back to my room, gathered my things and packed them in my backpack. I went down, all by myself, used the phone in the kitchen, called the cab. I followed grandfather's instruction to the letter. I was numb. I kept saying to myself that my mother is a monster but she's the only one I have. I have to live with that and pardon her come what may! Oh good God, Terry, please, I need a kiss."
We kissed tenderly. He relaxed. We were both erect again.
"This is doing me a lot of good to tell you all this. I needed to spit it out. I'm sorry! Thank you! I love you so much!"
He began fondling me as I gently stroked him. His breathing was almost normal.
"So, the next morning I took the first train to New York and went directly to the first travel agency I found upon arrival in Penn Station. There was a flight with the BOAC leaving the next day from Idlewild. As I looked out of the window of the Constellation, I said to myself, 'Terry could be looking at the same ocean we were flying over!' When we arrived in London, I was able to make connections with the Caledonian Sleeper out of Euston Station to Fort William and from there on to Mallaig. Now I'm back home, back to you. I'm back, Terry, back to stay."
Overwhelmed, I simply uttered in his ear, "Welcome home my love... welcome..."
His oozing cock throbbed in my fist. His was coaxing the slick out of mine. The gale wind was singing outside. Rain was beating against the window panes.
"Let's linger in bed a little longer. What do you say?" he whispered licking his lucious lips before diving under the covers.
Useless to insist on how my life had changed again! We rang up Andrea from the post office booth. He was expecting our call. He told us not to worry. He said his lawyers could find a way to thwart any of Annabelle's possible attempts to retrieve Timoteo.
"And of course, dear Terrence, Villa Torelli is your home too! I should like to talk to Timoteo now."
"Pronto, Papa! Ti amo! Torneremo presto!"
I understood it all as he said, 'Hello Daddy! I love you! We shall return soon!' and that's what we did for Christmas.
We'll decide later if we stay in Villa Torelli -- I admit, it's tempting. Andrea even proposed us a small lakeside house he has in Tremezzo.
For the time being, that seems to be the best solution. My parents need some time to get used to having Tim as a son-in-love! He wants to go to the university in Milano, grouping his classes three days a week and I shall get back to my book. We'll find a way, I'm sure. There's always something more to be found in this unbelievable life we're living!
A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at marin.giustinian@laposte.net.