The Lizard

@2005

With thanks to my editor Paul Robson

Two boys played with each other.

Unfortunately one child hurt the other slightly with his sword.

The parents sent out their boy to ask for mercy, but the father 

of the hurt one cut off the boy's hand and sent him back home

with the message 'Tell your father that iron and no blabbering

heals the wounds of swords.'

Pistoia, anno 1326

San Miniato. The Cemetery of the Holy Gates. The mild breeze of a friendly day in May touches my body gently as I stand next to my favourite place. When I look down, I see the life-size God of Death - or one of his guards -- sprawled desperately over a grave plate; his face buried in earth, his naked buttocks exposed, one hand clenched in a fist as if he could not come to terms with the way all earthly life would go. His other hand carried a torch, still flaming, enlightening the way into darkness.

Everything had started here. At the very beginning there was the angel of death. Only very much later we learned that there were other Gods with torches, there, in a gloomy chapel, deep under the earth beneath a Roman church. We were too young to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. It parted us and the only thing I had were his letters. Love letters, as I interpreted them.

He is here. Sandro. The Prince of the Lilies. He is here, although I hadn't heard him coming. He walks still on silent feet.

 "Luca." His hand on my shoulder turns me around to face him and I see his face. The five years have hardly changed it. The mahogany locks still frame his aristocratic, pale face where the blue eyes shine feverishly with excitement. His lips twist into a heart-rending smile.

And I am happy.

PART 1 - PRIMAVERA -

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1
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Luca shaded his eyes with his hand. A glaring sun burned down upon the dazzling-white marble of the graves. Above him arched a violet-blue sky like a translucent cupola of glass, high and wide, so that he could look unhindered to the hills of Fiesole, leaving them clear without haze to refract and blur them in the distance -- Lo Sfumato, as Leonardo da Vinci had called it. 

Luca smiled to himself. His hometown of Firenze was full of beautiful things. A town made from the grey stone, pietra serena - - rejecting, obstinate, inaccessible.  Firenze ... its inhabitants as hot-blooded, haughty and seditious as the stone, but it was his town and he loved it.

Luca looked down to the town beneath his feet. A red-grey, stony desert, with the biggest cupola of the world towering above it. Luca had not spent a single day of his nearly completed seventeen years without its sight. As often as he could, he came up here to stroll between the graves and urns, and gaze upon the steles, marble angels and sculptures. His sensitive fingers touched the white, smooth polished Cararra-marble of the doors that closed the drawers where the coffins lay. Dozens of grave-houses stood together in rows.  Each of them housing their own dozens of coffins decorated with golden letters, red flowers, picture-plates and candle fixtures.

Surrounding the rows of grave houses was a field covered with common graves. Luca occasionally would visit the grave of il Collodi to study the Pinocchio-figure engraved into the tombstone. He knew them all. The cimitero of the Holy Gates, high over Florence, was full of marble ghosts like the town itself; dead gods and patron saints.  Guards stood waiting for the daily invasion of the barbarian mob of the North, those squadrons of tourists coming in short trousers and sandals or boots, with marching rations and cameras, perpetually chased by their guides into the museums to gaze on Alessandro Botticelli's 'Birth of the Venus'.

Pearly laughter escaped from Luca's throat, dying away as quickly as it had appeared. His town was the ultimate embodiment of frosty sex. Naked statues occupied each corner, each museum, but what it really meant to touch the same ground as all the artists from all of the ages had done, no one could really comprehend.

Florence was a manly town. Straight and direct, it stood there without a shimmer of enigmatic secrets, without ingratiation or braids and trimming. Deeper within his view, the green band of the river Arno sparkled and Luca grasped the mustard and leather colours of Florence from the black-white of the Battistero to the dark green and white and gold of San Miniato behind him. He caught the touch of rose at the cathedral and Giotto's campanile, but the town was as stern and earnest as the big sculptors and architects had been who had moulded the view of the town throughout centuries past. They'd been bachelors, monks, holy men and soldiers, prophets and eremites ... always men.  Women never played a role.  Florence was the perfect town for Luca.

He turned his back and focussed on the graveyard in front of him. Then he placed one foot in front of the other and let them guide him. There, just next to the path it stood -- a life-size god of death, made of stone. Partially moss-covered, it sprawled despairingly over a grave plate, torch still flaming with its face buried into the earth and exposing its naked buttocks for Luca to touch.

He crouched closely. His fingers outlined the strong back, then fell down over the curve of the backside and remained there. His eyes remained unfocussed as they gazed into nowhere. What would it feel like to touch living, warm skin instead of cold, mossy stone? To see it move towards him, turning to expose the front side, waiting just for him?  What would it feel like when his mouth engulfed his secret desire, to smell and taste it? Especially when this skin was male?

He felt the rough stone. It was difficult to come to terms that he was an outsider, ostracized from his friends who whistled after the girls in short skirts. To avoid suspicion, Luca imitated his friends, flirting and laughing with them, but his heart remained cold and his eyes turned in different ways.

Florence was a hard test for someone like him, because the town seemed to be blessed with dozens of pretty young men who knew about their beauty. Luca was too young to have the guts needed to visit the places dedicated for men like him. Florence was not a homophobic place, just the opposite. Here, homosexuality seemed to be at home and always had.

From under the stony buttocks, a lizard appeared, then stopped to lay in the sun and warm her belly on the heated stone. Its light green back caught the sunbeams, and emphasizing the pale pattern of jewel-like scales.

A noise sounded from the entrance of the graveyard and the lizard vanished with a few quick movements. The procession had started and Luca rose. He thought he saw a pair of blue eyes behind a pillar watching him, but the next second they had vanished. A group of trumpet players played a solemn melody as they walked in step in front of the group of mourners carrying a coffin covered with a white, silky cloth and a bouquet of flowers.

A shadow slipped into the group to join the train of people, passing Luca who stood with his head bent respectfully. He knew the man who was carried to his last rest.  It was Matteo di Ser Federico di Gondi-Lucertola, brother of the mayor and patriarch of the noble family of Gondi.  He'd died suddenly of a  heart attack.

Luca shivered under the sharp look coming from a pair of blue eyes and was suddenly ashamed of his unsuitable, casual clothes. The eyes belonged to a young, haughty face ... one at once fine and noble in its structure with a sharp, Florentine nose and framed with a shock of mahogany-brown curls. Luca knew it was truly worthy of an Raphael-angel comparison. Yet, there was no smile, just a dangerous glistening in his blue eyes; a warning to stay apart and keep the place where Luca belonged -- the working class, who had no share of nobility and old-fashioned dignity.

Luca stepped back and watched the train pass until it stopped in front of a family tomb.  Emblazoned in golden letters was the family name over the heavy bronze door. The coffin and the closest family members vanished inside, the young man with them, while the others remained waiting outside.

Luca didn't know why he stayed waiting, alone, but something held him. Suppressed sobs could be heard while tiny, lace-covered handkerchiefs were pressed to noses and black veiled faces. Luca waited until the young man reappeared, pale and silent. He waited until the last flower was laid and the music had fallen silent. He pressed his back upon the sun-warmed wall of another tomb, absorbing the youth's features with his eyes. The black Cut, the gloves and shiny shoes ... much too warm for this day of May ... the straight, upright line of his back. Luca watched the young man's hand run through his curls and he felt a twinge of excitement burn in his stomach.

People passed him without taking notice. At last, his fascination came forward slowly, hesitating when he was at the same level with Luca. He turned his head and met Luca with an open look. The young man made a sign with his head and abruptly vanished between two grave houses. Luca rose, then followed.

The youth stood nonchalantly with one leg leaning back against the wall while removing his gloves and opening his Cut.  As Luca breathed in deeply and opened his mouth to speak, the lad made a quick movement towards him then pressed his lips upon Luca's. Heat and a flood of hormones rushed through his novice body as he felt the tongue, the foreign body, pressing briefly against his own - and then it was over. Harsh whispered words of "Tomorrow, same time" were uttered, then he was gone.

Luca stumbled to the nearest wall and touched his lips. Dazed, he stared at the corner where the young man had vanished. Then he started to run, trying desperately for a last look, and saw the black figure in the distance. It didn't turn back.

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2
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He ran his fingers through mahogany-brown curls that fell to the neck and he was allowed to play with them. The young man turned his head toward him and covered Luca's lips with feverish kisses, then ground their naked abdomens together until they appeared like one. Bluish, tender lids closed over stunning blue eyes; the lashes fluttered excitedly.  And then ...  with a jolt, Luca woke up. 

He had sprayed himself, his hand still clasping his penis. Embarrassed, though no one had witnessed, he jumped from the bed and fished a tissue from the package. The floorboards creaked under his soles. He listened, but everything was quiet.

It was Sunday and the memory returned. Yesterday he had met the boy with the haughty face who had inflamed his body and stirred his interest. He was the son of a noble family, the nephew of the mayor and well known in this town. At nineteen, he was already notorious for his adventures; a real womanizer. Pah. Luca now knew better.

He slipped through the door, crossed the small corridor and entered the bathroom. His grandfather had rebuilt the old house completely, but without modern tiles and fittings.  There was still the old bath-oven which had to be heated with wood and paper, but at last, finally, warm water gushed from the pipe when Luca stepped into the bath tub.  He washed off the shed of white drops with the hose, along with the sweat of sexual dreams he had so often of late whenever his dreams of men haunted him.

When the water started to get cold again, he finished his toilet, dressed and descended to the kitchen and his mother, who was already preparing breakfast. His father was there too, bent over his thick books filled with photographs and drawings of patterns and stones.

    "Buon giorno", Luca said, trying to sound cheerful.  His father looked up without really seeing him, but he answered his greeting with silent voice. The smell of cooked wafers wafted through the room. His mother gave him a loving glance, then pulled honey and marmalade from the pantry and placed them upon the freshly scrubbed wooden table that stood in the middle of the wide, dark room.

The windows were narrow and large and grated with iron bars.  It had been built that way four hundred years ago. The house hadn't always been in the possession of the Montori family, but was given to them as a present for their faithfulness by the last remnants of the Medici-ancestors. The windowsill was full of herb pots whose scent wafted throughout the entire ground floor. Whenever Luca thought about his home, he connected it with that scent.

The interior had seen better days, but Lucas' mother reigned over the household with a loving, yet strong hand. She reigned unopposed since her husband wasn't of mind enough to stand his place. He was always too caught up in his work.

    "First day of your holidays, son", he said now, closing carefully the book he was leafing through. Luca had seldom seen him without a book tucked under his arm.

    "Yes." Luca sat down and poured thin coffee, strengthened with chicory for his father and himself. His mother placed a plate with wafers on the table in front of him and ruffled his hair affectionately. He hated it, but held his complaint. He wasn't a little boy anymore. Next week he would be seventeen and old enough to be considered a man.

His brothers still slept, Luca assumed. Giano, the brother nearest to him in age, could sleep in each day because he waited for the start of the first semester at the University of Pisa. As if on cue, the door opened and a tousled Giano entered the kitchen, eyes thick from sleep and his shirt buttoned the wrong way. "Buon giorno", he said sleepily, then took his seat at the table and poured himself coffee.

    "Read too long yesterday evening?" Clarissa asked. "Or have you been out?"

    "Have been out", Giano said reserved, but Luca saw a brief redness scurrying over his face. Like Luca himself, he had inherited Clarissa's blond hair and her ephebian-like features.  From their father, both had the large, brown eyes -- a nice contrast which always gained people's attention.

Luca's thoughts drifted.  He thought it funny that Alessandro's brown hair and blue eyes were reversed from their own.  Nature at play.  The thought of the young noble man made his cheeks flush as well, along with the memory of the dirty dreams he'd had last night. Furtively, he examined his brother, who was a year older than Luca himself and the pet of the family.

    "Meeting with friends?" Clarissa asked innocently, pouring herself coffee as she sat down to eat.

    "Yes." Giano bent his head over his plate and started to eat silently. He wasn't normally very communicative, but Luca had a closer connection with him than he did with his other brothers.  They lived their own private lives with separate activities and constantly changing girlfriends. One primary thing connected each of them -- they worked at the opificio delle pietre dure, a famous, nationwide workshop for mosaics, intarsia, and the restoration of works of art. The family of the Montori had worked there for generations and Lucas' way was so booked. Not that he dismissed this work. He was actually looking forward to joining this honourable, worldwide high-acclaimed profession. He just wasn't sure if he could be as good as his father.

    "What are your plans now before you join the university?" his father asked, chewing at a wafer and licking honey from the corner of his lips. His bushy, grey hair always looked uncombed and gave him the aura of a scattered professor. "I trust you won't just lounge around and live off us, now will you." It was a sharp-tongued statement, not a question. Niccolò Montori belonged to the old Florentine generation, outwardly hard as a nutshell, and inwardly the same. But despite this, he had a very real passion -- the love and devotion for his work.

    "Or do you want to lounge around the hospital of Santo Spirito examining the intestines of corpses as that scoundrel, Michelangelo, did, eh?"

Luca hid a grin. That was his father's favourite objection to his son's wish to become a surgeon. For his religious father, it was a crime to open dead bodies.

Giano lifted his head and retorted heatedly. "And what if I did?"

Father and son stared at each other. Clarissa shifted restlessly upon her chair. "Basta cosi," she said. "Giano has chosen this profession and I'm glad to hear about something different than stones, dust and squeezed fingers. Look at your eyes." She referred to the fact that Niccolò's eyes were perpetually inflamed due to the dust the cutting of the stones caused. Niccolò squelched a curse between his teeth. He couldn't compete with Clarissa's arguments.  It was best to say nothing.

    "You've been on the cimitero yesterday?" Giano asked his brother suddenly. "Did you see the funeral?"

Luca couldn't help but blush. "Yes," he said in a subdued voice.

    "How was it?" Clarissa asked with interest. "What did they wear? Black lace and veils? Was there lots of music and flowers?"

    "Have you seen the Prince of the Lilies?" Giano interrupted her.

    "The prince?" Luca croaked. "Alessandro, yes."

   "That good for nothing," Niccolò growled. "Good that he's off soon. He was the one who brought his father to an early death."

  "Niccolò!" gasped Clarissa and made the sign of the cross. "Don't talk like this."

    "I'm right," Niccolò responded. "He's a loafer and brings shame on his family. The girls are crazy for him. He turns their heads, I wonder how he's managed not to impregnate the whole town."

Giano swallowed a piece of wafer wrong and coughed. "And what if you're wrong? It's not the girls alone."

    "Indeed so, son. He makes a lot of noise when he and his lot putt through the night on their motorbikes when a honest man needs to sleep. He bellows drunkenly under the windows and God knows what drugs he takes." He lowered his voice. "They even say, he goes with men, making them pay for a look at him in his Adam's costume, as bare as God has created him." He too made the sign of the cross.

Again Luca blushed, but Giano laughed disdainfully. "And where did you hear this? Do they tell it at work? Or in the pubs?"

    "It's well-known, son."

    "What is well-known?" The door opened and Luca's oldest brothers, Dante and Marcello, stepped in.  Both were appropriately clothed.  It was an unwritten rule in the house of the Montori that you were fully dressed when you sit at the table.

    "That Gondi-Lucertola boy."

    "Sure, he's well-known to all of us. Isn't he?" Dante threw a significant look to his younger brother, Giano. "That faggot. Yesterday, I saw him down the river banks at the Villa Kazar. He let himself be touched by those dirty fingers of the queer Luciano.  And he seemed to enjoy it."

Luca didn't know how Dante meant his words.  Either he was revolted or he enjoyed watching the offensive and obviously heinous actions.

    "Basta." Clarissa said once more. "I don't want to hear that kind of talk at my breakfast table. What this boy is doing is not bothering us, capisce?

He's young."

    "And that's an excuse for those faggot-things?"

Giano harshly placed his coffee cup on the table. "And that gives you the right to put your nose high into the air and feel so much cleaner than the so-called dirty faggot? Eh? What are you searching for under the skirts of the chicks? Fish?"

    "Giano! Out you are. Go." A steep wrinkle of anger appeared on Clarissa's forehead, promising no good. Giano pushed back his chair and stomped out from kitchen. " You are ready for church in ten minutes!" she called after him.

Luca sat dazed. Alessandro, the bad guy of the town, had never been an issue in this house, nor the obviously homophobic opinions of his brothers. Dante and Marcello smirked silently and the rest of the meal continued in silence.

Up in his room after breakfast, Luca fought with himself about whether or not to go and meet Alessandro. He had been at Villa Kazar yesterday? He'd been at the posh restaurant for the rich and beautiful, and the hangers-on who considered themselves as one of them? He was fondled by the queer, Luciano? And today he wanted to be fondled by him, by Luca?

His thoughts spun on uncontrollably.  'And how many queers do you know, Luca Montori? Perhaps this is your way into the world of gays? And if you don't like it, you can always return to the odorous and fishy-smelling underwear of the chicks,' he said half laughing. 'Ugh.'

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3
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The lizard was there again. Sunbeams danced upon its light-green skin making it glisten like chrysopras. But with a few quick movements, it rushed between the stones and became invisible. Luca squatted beside the fallen angel. Or was it a god? Was there a god, holding a torch? Enlightening the path that led to eternal life?

A shadow fell beside him. Luca looked up into Alessandro's face. It was tinged by a smile. Wordlessly, he pulled Luca to his feet and dragged him along, crossing the path and passing the tombs until he entered a very old and tattered looking crypt. It was cool when he stopped in the middle the room. Small beams of sunlight painted a pattern upon his skin. His eyes reflected the spots.

   "I'm Alessandro." He stepped forward, embraced Lucas' face with his hands and engaged him in an open-lipped, wet kiss. Luca moaned involuntarily, but did nothing to stop it, then finally reciprocated. Alessandro's lips wandered to Luca's ears and neck while his hands tugged at Luca's shirt, pulling it from his blue jeans.

   "What's yours?" His voice was hoarse and deep with passion.

   "Luca," Luca said indistinctly. His heart beat in his throat like a drum roll causing his blood to pound in his ears. Alessandro fell to the ground, taking Luca's trousers with him. Once there, on his knees, he pulled down Lucas' underpants then hesitated for a second to brush the tip of Lucas' member with his lips. From his mouth came a strange, approving sound when Lucas' penis rose within seconds firm with blood; pulsating and glistening moistly.

Luca's breath through his mouth was laboured as he bent his head, closed his eyes and prayed to all saints he knew that this would never end.

It was more than he had ever imagined ... to be touched by a hand other than his own ... to be licked by another's mouth. The tongue felt like fire until all of his life seemed to flood into Alessandro's mouth, then overflowed it. The last remains being licked from the corner of his lips.

   "You can open your eyes again," Alessandro smirked. "Where do you live?"

   "San... Santa Croce." Luca whispered. A surge of cool wind touched his now abandoned and exposed penis. He covered it with his palms, but Alessandro pushed them away and continued to stroke him. "Santa Croce? Old dyer's trade quarter? Going to school still?"

Lucas' member started to rise again. "Opificio", he squeezed out. "I start soon."

Alessandro whistled through his teeth. "You're good with stones and mosaics and intarsia?"

Luca nodded. He thought that Alessandro was good with his hands too.

   "Are you often here?"

Luca nodded again with gritted teeth. Alessandro groped his balls and stroked the length of his penis. Luca's hands embraced Alessandro's waist and tried to pull himself down; he needed a place to rest his shaking legs, but Alessandro held him upright. "Not here. Come to my place?"

Luca eyes grew wide. "To your palazzo? No way."

   "Why not?" Alessandro pouted. He wasn't used to rejection. He let loose of Lucas' penis.

   "I'm not sure... your father... mother and all."

Alessandro's face became like stone. Now he looked much older than he was. "I do what I like", he said haughtily, then continued in a more conciliatory voice, "We have some weeks before I go to Pisa."

   "Pisa?"

   "I'll study art history." He smiled a bewitching smile. "But before that we can have a lot of fun." He gave Luca's penis a last stroke, causing it to jerk and stand upright before he squeezed it back into the underpants - not without a look of regret. "He looks fine," he said excited.

   "He?"

Alessandro pulled up Luca's zipper and patted the bulge. Luca didn't dare ask about Alessandro's state of excitement. Should he follow him and find out?

   "Where did you get that blond hair of yours?" Alessandro combed all five fingers through the abundant strands.

   "As a real, Italian macho you must be mad for blonds, right?" Luca joked and started to laugh his pearly laughter. Alessandro joined him. "Are you famous for that laughter?" he grinned, walking out of the crypt.

Sunlight flooded his feature, making his hair shiny red and inflaming his skin. He spread his arms outward and bent his head back. "Life is wonderful, Luca. Share it with me, won't you?"

Luca, confused by the outburst's vivid exuberance, didn't answer. "They call you the Prince of the Lilies," he said lowly.

   "Yes." Alessandro laughed. "And of the lizards. Whenever you try to catch a lizard it drops its tail and escapes." He looked at Luca. "Next Sunday, same time?"

Luca nodded. Prince of the Lilies. Alessandro di Ser Matteo di Gondi-Lucertola. Life couldn't be easy when your name was lizard. Or was it?

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4
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"Budapest, Gennaro 1429

 "His name was Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Simone Guidi di Monte Cassai and he descended from an old family of carpenters: cabinet- and chests makers. Even as child, he had been bigger and stouter and stronger than other children - opposite to me. His younger brother called him deprecatingly, Masaccio: the big Thomas, the colossus.

He came into my workshop there in the town of San Giovanni Alt'ura in the fruitful ground of Tuscany. He came and I was lost. One look into his fiery, black eye and I was ablaze. Although the love between two men in the Republic of Tuscany was not scorned, the eye of the priest was omnipresent and the people easily influenced.

I could have been his father, but we both did not mind. He considered me as his mentor when I taught him to guide his paintbrush or to use the pencil filled with the red powder from the Arabian town of Sinope to transfer his cardboard to the bare walls.

He was sixteen when his wild and free-spirited mind desired to break free from the oppressive conditions of our village. It was Firenze that called him, the town where Maestro Giotto had worked as the true explorer of the old art, to paint a three-dimensional painting - height, width and length - and I knew it was just a matter of time when my Tommaso would exceed me.

I had to follow him wherever he would go."

Alessandro's hand lowered the worn book and pondered. He lay fully dressed upon his bed and devoted himself to his favourite business: the artists of Florence. He felt an odd affection to the wild inhabitants of his hometown and when anybody should think that the business of art was something for stay-at-homes and weak queers, he was badly mistaken. There was a whole conception of life to learn from them, and the inhabitants of Florence had enough self-confidence to demand only the best. Just like this town had produced the best of art, at least for two, short centuries.

It was easy to learn about the reason for that. Foreigners naturally thought that the sunny, free landscape had been the inspiration even though the best pieces of art had been made under the pressures of wars, self-serving dukes and power- hungry popes. In the end, it must have been the special Italian genes.

Alessandro felt his own genes were tired and fading. He was the last offspring of the Gondi-Lucertola's. He had no brother, nor sister anymore, and his mother wouldn't bear any new children with another man, now that his father had died of a heart attack. She was a belletrist, spending her time with piano playing, embroidering and painting the beauty of the Mugello's valley. At this moment she prepared for the move of the family to their villa in the Fiesole's hills, to flee the beginning stream of tourists and later the quenching heat that filled the valley of the Arno, bringing mosquitoes and malaria.

Alessandro's eyelashes fluttered. No, that belonged to another time. It wasn't Malaria anymore. It was the breath of the past that drove her out of town and the certainty that she was finally allowed to live her own life. Now that her husband had gone, she no longer cared about her son as she always had done. Now, her nights were filled with the bitter taste of absinth.

He was glad to be leaving in a month, discovering a new town, being on his own. And he would make sure that everybody knew who he was: the Lily's Prince, ready to conquer the boys and not the girls. Florence was so boring for that matter. He knew each gay man by name because each weekend he encountered the same people ... except for that Luca-boy who had appeared out of nowhere at the cimitero. Luca was young enough to be innocent and young enough not to be broken when he would leave because there would be others left behind for him.

A chattering sound rose up to the window of his room which sat under the roof. The design of the palazzo's roof, with the broad loggia of pillars that let the air in, also allowed the scent of wild rosemary from the hills to filter in even though the palazzo stood in the centre of town. The ‘Lizard-Tower', as it was known in Florence, was the remains of a large tower-house from the medieval ages. The windows were small and barred. On the outside, holes remained from forgotten staircases on the walls originally intended to allow entry to each floor separately. They were long gone now.

If he hadn't received this book from his grandfather, he would be as sunken into 'dolce far niente' as his parents have been. He didn't even bother to hide his passion for art in front of his buddies. They had laughed at him only one time. For them, everything was taken for granted; the beauty in stone, the precious gift Florence was living from, even if it meant a lot of unpleasantness during the summer. Actually, he had never spent the summer in the seething cauldron of this town. That wasn't his problem. He was young, and he radiated the innate beauty of an ancient fresco -- and he was rich, rich enough to be a loafer, a bum, frittering away the time with whoring, drinking and stupid chatter.

The deep bells of Giotto's campanile sounded. Alessandro jumped to his feet. He would not miss the chance to meet Luca at the cimitero.

   "Why do you always crouch beside that naked ass, eh?" he greeted Luca, kneeling beside the stony God with the torch. "You don't have an odd desire for corpses, do you?" His blue eyes glistened when they caught the sunlight. "You can have my ass to touch."

Luca jerked his hand from the stone and turned. There Alessandro stood, red-flaming hair, curls falling onto his bare neck, the white, long-sleeved shirt that was tucked into his jeans was unbuttoned allowing Luca to see his navel. Luca's heart surged. Nobody was as sexy as Alessandro, not even the naked, flawless stone.

   "Have you ever been to our family chapel?" Alessandro asked, helping Luca up. Luca threw a furtive glance to the family tomb down the path.

   "No, not that. What I mean is the family chapel at Novella. Don't say you haven't a clue about your own town."

Luca lifted his shoulders helplessly. Surely he had been to the church of Santa Maria Novella, but it was gloomy and there weren't any mosaics to admire, nor precious pietre dure works.

Alessandro shook his head, chiding as they set off towards the exit of the cemetery. "How was church?" he asked, looking at the boy walking at his side.

   "The same as always", Luca answered, happy to leave the sensitive theme. He felt a little stupid. "Why do you want to show me your chapel? Haven't you been to church already?"

   "Gesù! You are worse than the pope himself. This is Florence! We may be catholic, but our minds are free."

Luca thought about his father and saw him making the sign of the cross at Alessandro's words. "So, why do you want to go then?"

Alessandro stopped at the balustrade that overlooked the town. A breeze moved his hair as he lined up with the tourists that stood in awe with cameras in front of their eyes. "Because it's a long way from here to there." He pointed to the filigree line, jutting out of the flatness of the town, indicating the church's clock tower. "And we have a lot of time until we reach it", he whispered.

'Time for what?' Luca thought. 'To make small talk?' He was disappointed. He had prepared himself to be kissed and sucked again, but Alessandro was behaving like a tourist guide. Then he fell abruptly silent, joining the foreigner's silence. It was impossible to speak when Florence lay flooded in sunlight at their feet.

Luca felt a certain pride. He had never thought about what it was like to live in a living museum. He concerned himself with his own problems. Now, suddenly, he had a kindred spirit at his side and everything looked easy. He followed Alessandro as he sauntered down the long and steep staircase, crossing the Piazzale Michelangelo with the copy of a verdigris-David, and meeting women with buggies on their way to the Boboli-Gardens. They continued down the snake-like way until they reached the embankments of the river. On this Sunday afternoon, the streets were empty because it was the time when Florentines either met with their family exclusively or gathered in parks.

The yellow-washed building of Santo Spirito appeared and Luca remembered his father's words to Giano about not examining corpses as Michelangelo had. He had to grin. "I hope you're thinking about coming home with me, later?" he heard Alessandro say. "There's nobody around to disturb us. Madama Lucertola is busy with her preparations for the move to Fiesole."

   "You will leave with her?" Disappointment surged through Luca. "I thought you said you had a month before you go to Pisa. My brother goes later."

Alessandro stood and gave him an attentive look. "Your brother's going to Pisa? What is he studying?"

   "Medicine. He wants to become a surgeon."

   "Surgeon." Alessandro's twisted his lips. "I can't see blood."

   "Me neither."

Alessandro continued on in silence, his head bent as if he was counting the paving stones. A whistle from somewhere near made him look up. Luca saw a gathering of lads in jean jackets and leather trousers leaning against motorbikes. "So that's the reason you stood us up this afternoon, eh?" one of them shouted.

Luca looked away, wishing that the earth would swallow him. They were all older than him, and they had a somewhat threatening aura around them. But Alessandro remained calm. "Don't worry, Nino. You won't miss a thing", he said relaxed and winked.

   "And we thought it was a chick you wanted to lay. Now we see ... this."

   "Shut up." Alessandro moved past them, pulling Luca with him. Lorries, with bottles of Chianti, crossed the piazza along with open carts laden with salad and chicken on their way to the grocery shops.

   "Were they your friends?" Luca asked after they had passed.

   "I don't have any friends", Alessandro said and Luca again sensed the arrogance. Suddenly, everything became clear: his loneliness of a misunderstood adolescent, alone, with his mixed-up feelings. "You don't want to have any", he said after a while.

   "My father thinks you are the reason for your father's death."

   "What?" Alessandro stopped abruptly and supported a hand upon the brown retaining wall which forced the river into its bed. "Excuse me, but your father talks about matters he doesn't have a clue about. It was my father that drove me out onto the streets." Luca saw that he wanted to say more, but Alessandro closed his mouth and seemed to chew on the words he kept from leaving his lips. Luca sensed that now wasn't a good time to insist on learning Alessandro's secrets - if he had any. But everybody had secrets, didn't they? "Do your... buddies know you are ... going with men?"

Alessandro, ready to walk on, stopped again, turning his head to Luca in amazement. "I'm going with men? Who told you this?"

Luca laughed despite his fear. "Come on! What is it that you want from me then?"

   "Sex," Alessandro said bluntly, not blinking.

   "Then go and find some smelly girl's underwear."

First Alessandro looked as if he would hit him, then his face brightened and an outburst of heartfelt laughter filled the warm air. "You're something! You think that sex with girls and sex with boys is the same, yes?" He stepped closer. "Ever fucked a girl? No, you haven't, right?"

   "My father says that he wonders why you haven't made half of the town pregnant."

   "My father says, my father says!" Alessandro parroted. "Don't you have a mind of your own? What do you think I am? Sure, I don't work, I don't go to school, I lounge around with the lot making noise in the night. But I'm no vandal. Have you ever heard that I defaced the stones and churches and monuments? I just suffer from ... boredom!"

   "Boredom, huh," Luca returned. "Well, then we should hurry and you can show me your private chapel. It would be something for you to do at least." Determinedly, Luca went ahead, refusing to look and see if Alessandro was following him or not. It didn't take long before Alessandro was at his side again. "Are you interested in art?" he asked.

   "Sure. But I don't know much. Just the important facts, not the details. That's all. I know a lot about how to work stones into mosaics though. My father is a master. All my brothers are working there and now I'm the last to join."

   "So why does one of your brothers want to become a surgeon then?"

Luca shrugged. "I don't know." Silently, he feared that Giano wanted to leave his home just to live alone. He was a rebellious young man, always with an opposing word on his tongue, but knowing him as Luca did, Giano was gentle as a lamb and, Giano didn't care what his father said.

They crossed the bridge of Santa Trinità, then passed the marble head of the God Mars with his erased face. It had lain in the river after the bombardment of Hitler's troops when they were destroying the bridges. Luca knew that it was the explicit wish of the German Führer that Ponte Vecchio was the only bridge that shouldn't be destroyed because even he thought it beautiful.

 
Rowing boats and canoes swam upon the Arno, reminding him of his time at Oxford, but Alessandro didn't stop to reflect and dream. Soon they had vanished in the maze of narrow streets, passing churches and Palazzi.

   "You haven't answered my question", Luca said. "Why do you leave for Pisa so soon?"

   "Because it's time to leave. There's nothing that holds me here."

Luca felt a little pain. "And do you often go to gay meeting points?"

   "Want to join me?" Alessandro retorted. "They are always waiting for fresh meat. Everybody knows everybody; it's boring."

Now Luca seemed to know why Alessandro wanted to leave the town. He needed something new. "What about me?" he asked quietly.

   "You as fresh meat? Why not."

Luca moaned inwardly. Was he really that meek and thought himself so insignificant as to just follow this braggart like a puppy, ready to get his daily good pummelling and then to lick his hands afterwards? "You're nasty." The angry retort escaped him. "I sacrifice my time for you and you have nothing better to do than to laugh at me."

   "Huh? Sacrifice your time? Then go and jerk off alone."

Alessandro went on with long steps. Luca watched him from behind, focusing on the gentle movement of his jeans-clad butt and the swaying of his hips. Alessandro walked on confidently, knowing that Luca would follow him. And, he did, but he didn't know why. 

It was so cool inside the church of Santa Maria Novella after the warm sunlight that Luca shivered when they entered. "It's a Dominican Church, founded in 1221." Alessandro said, automatically lowering his voice.

   "I know this. You don't need to behave like a tourist guide."

Alessandro gave him an amused look over his shoulder. "But I want to become a tourist guide."

Luca was surprised. He hadn't thought that Alessandro had wishes for any profession at all.

   "Why do you think I'm going to study art history?"

   "To fight your boredom?"

Alessandro didn't answer, but pulled him to the left side of the chapel where a large fresco covered the wall. Almost solemnly, he said, "The Trinity of Masaccio. He painted it in 1425. It took one hundred years after Master Giotto's death to produce another hero like him. Masaccio studied his frescoes and quickly learned how to continue his work. Even more, he was the man, in the then modern times, who remembered the perspective painting."

   "Remembered? It was all forgotten, right?" Luca threw in, trying to re-call his art-lessons in school.

Alessandro nodded. "It's called linear-perspective. Masaccio was the first to realize Brunelleschi's invention for architecture in a painting." He pulled Luca to a dark-red spot amidst the marble floor. "Stay put and study it." Luca did so and suddenly the fresco gained depth and three-dimensional view. The arch curved over the Godfather with his supporting hands above the outstretched arms of his son hanging on the cross. "Amazing."

   "Yes."

Luca saw that the fresco was painted with a strange red colour like dried blood, a blue-green and the colours of brownish earth. "Looks somewhat wretched." He shuddered. "Those dead eyes..."

   "Looks like the Tuscan farmers he doubtlessly took as models", Alessandro said. "It was found again in the 19th century during restoration work. The pillock of Vasari thought the church was too gothic in style, meaning he thought it was barbarian, and so he remodelled it while tearing out the monk's choir, placing large altars to each side and over painted the old frescoes with white colour."

Luca remembered Vasari as being the biographer of all-important Renaissance-artists and a personal friend of Michelangelo. He was sure that if Michelangelo had seen this disfigurement he wouldn't have been his friend anymore.

   "And this", Alessandro pointed to the fresco below, "was found a few years ago under all the layers of paint: the grey-in-grey Grisaille of a skeleton laying upon a coffin. Imagine, fifty years before Leonardo drew an anatomically exact skeleton, it was Masaccio who did it first. And how was he able to do it?"

Luca shrugged. "He probably dug up the corpses at a cemetery." He read the inscription: "I was what you are now; what I am now, you will be."

   "Creepy", he said.

   "Creepy like Masaccio's death."

A questioning look covered Luca's expression. Alessandro continued.

    "Nobody knows when and why he died. He just vanished from Rome's earth. He had gone there to follow his teacher Masolino. Perhaps the teachers at Pisa know more about that."

   "Why should they?"

   "Because Masaccio worked in Pisa as well. Come. Our chapel is the one next to the altar chapel."

Luca followed him through the long, echoing hall. Florentines sat on benches praying silently with folded hands. Footsore tourists, tired from walking on the pavement and sated and confused from all the impressions, joined them. Luca was confused as well. He hadn't expected that Alessandro could have such a widespread knowledge of Florence's history where art was concerned. His steps echoed on the patterned marble ground. Luca felt oddly oppressed, but he couldn't quite explain why. His father said that the walls of churches and houses absorbed the spirits of people who lived and worked and prayed there. So, what if the spirit of the fiery Dominican monks who'd fought heresy, pride and gluttony still remained here? He knew he wouldn't want to visit this church alone.

Alessandro had stopped in front of the large altar-chapel. Next to it was another, smaller one. "That's ours", Alessandro stated. Polychrome marble and porphyry decoration covered the walls, and the sarcophagi were modelled as benches on the sidewalls. "The most precious thing is this crucifix made by Brunelleschi, the Master of the Cupola. It is the first depiction of Christ without a loincloth. Our family made a great effort to see that he placed it in our chapel. Money I assume." He grinned slyly.

   "Are these your ancestors?” Luca asked, pointing to the sarcophagi. Alessandro nodded. "They were contemporaries of Lorenzo de' Medici in the 15th century. Silk-merchants. We had ships at Pisa's harbour.”

   "I thought you had enough of church going for today, nephew", an older man said suddenly next to them. He was of impressive stature with greying hair at the temples, and stubborn curls over his forehead. It had the same mahogany-brown colour as Alessandro's. His small, round eyes pierced Luca's, instantly leaving Luca feeling insignificant to the point of almost shrinking under his stare. Luca felt the barrier separating people like him with people like them.

   "Oh, zio. I just wanted to show a friend our chapel."

   "So? Is he a foreigner that you have to explain the treasures of this church? And since when do you have friends? Or more precisely, since when do you call your lot friends?" His voice sounded bitter cold.

Luca stepped away and pretended to study the frescoes at the altar-chapel. He didn't want to meet any more relatives or so-called friends of Alessandro today. He'd had enough. He certainly didn't belong to this class and they made him feel it. He tried to eavesdrop though he couldn't understand a word of the harsh and quickly whispered words of uncle and nephew. When Alessandro tapped his shoulder, he jumped.

   "We'll leave. I hadn't expected to meet him here."

   "Who was it?"

   "The brother of my father.”

At first Luca was confused, for the brother of Alessandro's father was the mayor. Obviously, Alessandro had more than one uncle.

   "He doesn't seem to be in the best mood", he replied furtively.

   "He hates me." He shrugged.

Again Luca wondered about, but marvelled at Alessandro's indifference. Perhaps it was just a mask. It could not be easy to be the bad boy for everyone. He didn't ask why his uncle hated him, but followed him out into the sun-flooded piazza with the obelisk in the middle of it.

   "What are we doing now?" Alessandro asked.

Luca had no answer. He knew he still wanted to be alone with him, to feel his decadent kisses. Then he saw Alessandro looking at his watch. "Listen, I have things to do. Let's meet next Sunday, alright?"

Without waiting for an answer, he walked away, crossing the piazza and then vanished down one of the streets leading to the centre of the town.

_________________

5
__________________

Luca's tongue remained at the corner of his lips. Attentively he followed the lines his pencil drew upon the paper and saw Alessandro's face developing. He wasn't that good with sketching, at least not as good as his father was, but it was enough for everybody to recognize to whom it belonged. Now the body... with an open zipper, the erect penis jutting out from the slit of his underpants. He drew it longer than it was in reality and Luca grinned mischievously.

There was a knock at the door and hastily Luca closed the bloc of paper to hide the drawing. "Come in", he said and Giano opened the door. "What are you doing here in the dark on this sunny day?" he asked. "Want to come with me?"

   "Whereto?"

   "Just walking."

It was the middle of the week and tomorrow would be Luca's birthday. "Alright." Luca rose to his feet.

   "I saw you recently with the Gondi-Lucertola boy", Giano started once they were outside. The Montori-house was situated next to the river because it had once housed places for dyed clothes that had to be washed in the Arno. It once was a poor quarter for minority workers and Jews, but now, since the factories had vanished, it looked brighter and a lot cleaner Luca assumed. Black-dressed, old women limped to the church of Santa Croce, their black handbags pressed tightly to their flabby breasts. Giano and Luca made room for workers, carrying desktops, mirrors and wardrobes to pass.

   "Do you know him?"

Giano shook his head. "I just know he isn't good for you." He briefly embraced Luca's shoulders and ruffled his fingers through Luca's thick, blond hair. Luca liked Giano's touch as much as he disliked it when his mother did the same, but he couldn't express why. Perhaps because he felt so comfortable in his brother's presence. "And how do you know so well that he isn't good for me?" he asked.

   "Luca." Giano stood in front of his younger brother and looked at him with serious, brown eyes. "I just know it. They and us - it doesn't fit together. They are different. You can't rely on them. One day they are your friends, the other they don't know you anymore. Please spare yourself a lot of trouble."

   "There's nothing between us, not even friendship." Luca defended himself. "He knows so much about history, and it's fun to listen to him."

Giano looked flabbergasted. "He knows about history? That's new to me. I thought a boy like him wouldn't have had other interests than to be a plague for the world."

Now Luca laughed. "You are the one who is snotty, my dear. YOU draw the lines that separate us, isn't that so? You know fairly well that aristocracy hasn't the power anymore, the times are over when a noble man could decide about life or death. And haven't you told me always that the common Florentine was a rebel, fighting each supremacy, no matter if it was a religious or an earthly one?"

   "The common Florentine once burnt a priest whose commemorative plaque you still can see in the pavement at Piazza Signoria! They tore apart the bodies of their enemies and ate them!"

Luca rolled his eyes. "That's old-fashioned stuff! Can't we never begin again without it?"

   "Now, who was the one interested in history, eh?" Giano asked half-amused, tripped over an uneven kerb and almost had a crash with a Vespa. The driver shouted obscenities but Giano just grinned. "This town! About time I was off."

   "I'll miss you like hell", Luca said.

   "I'm not out of the world, piccolino. I'll have a lot of time in-between the semesters and will visit you. Or you'll come to me. It's just a cat's jump away."

Suddenly it struck Luca. "Alessandro starts his study too, but in a month, unlike you."

He saw Giano's dismayed face. "What is he studying?"

   "Art history, don't worry."

   "Well, then...."

   "Do you think you will like the university? I mean, certainly you'll have to share a room."

Giano nodded. Actually this was the only thing that bothered him. He wasn't used to sharing his privacy, but he had to make the best of it. He couldn't afford to rent a room. But deep down he was relieved that his parents had allowed him to start studying at Pisa's university. Now he was out of the family's grip and could begin his own life - which was a privilege for an Italian boy who usually remained in the circle of the family until he married. To go from one prison into another, Giano thought. He would be the first medic medic in the family of Montori who were dyers in the medieval ages and delivered to the houses of the Medici clothes and fabrics. When this trade had died and was replaced by machines, they had joined the workshop that created stone-mosaics that were even exported all over the world. But Giano liked to use the skill of his fingers for a different profession. "Anyway", he said aloud, his brown eyes serious. "Watch out for yourself." He breathed deeply the fresh-muddy scent of the river.

Luca remained silent. He didn't know what this special feeling was, he shared with his older brother, but it was very special. And then, when Giano left for Pisa, Luca would be alone. His friends from school-days were out of reach - emotionally. He couldn't share his feelings with them.

He searched for Giano's hand and entwined his fingers with his brother's. Giano turned his head and smiled melancholically. "What do you wish for your birthday?"