It was just past eight in the morning and the town of Sangenello was beginning to stir. From his second floor balcony in the villa, Burke looked down to the beach far below. The fishing fleet was just putting off, the men and young boys manhandling their heavy boats into the low surf and then climbing aboard, grabbing oars to propel themselves out and away from the shore. Once past the high promontory on which the villa was built, they would raise sail and spend the rest of the day casting their nets.

     Burke, dressed only in pajamas, was waiting for Celeste, the villa’s housekeeper, with his morning coffee. Yesterday he had padded down to the kitchen where, she, usually overcome with giggles in her attempt to respond in English, pointedly kept her back to him. He had become accustomed to her cheerful, “Buon Giorno, Meester Ber’ke, ‘ello,” as she put the tray at his bedside and then cross the room to open the shutters. He would swing out of bed, stretch languidly, and coffee in hand, open the French doors onto the balcony and greet the new day.

    He finally concluded that she wasn’t coming this morning either and returned to the bedroom where he put on his robe and headed down to the kitchen. Celeste was busy washing plates and utensils at the sink. He offered a quiet “Buon Giorno” but received only an inaudible grunt in reply. Crossing to the stove he struck a match to the gas burner then sat down at the table. The coffee, souring in the pot, had been left for him to reheat.

     Burke’s blonde hair was ruffled, uncombed, his robe had fallen open at the top. Celeste stiffened when he entered the room as though his exposed crop of chest hair insulted her sense of propriety, his bare feet and tanned legs out of place in her kitchen.

     From where he sat waiting for the coffee to heat he could see out to the terrazzo. Flowers and vegetables co-mingled in giant pots that were set along the patio pathways giving the air a sweet and pungent tang. The villa and its impressive property belonged to Burke’s host, Albert Claude, an older, wealthy German who had, for many years, along with a few other expatriates, spent his summer’s in Sangenello, a fishing village near Sorrento in southern Italy.

     All politeness and formal reserve, his manner and speech the remains of a distant European social order, he addressed Burke as, “My dear friend,” never by name. Even in the bedroom.

     Burke had encountered Albert Claude on the fashionable Via Veneto in Rome. Posing as a casual window shopper, Burke was actually looking over the crowd at the sidewalk cafes which were popular with well-to-do tourists and expatriates. His rent was due and his supply of Lira running out.

     Nodded to by Albert, who was visiting Rome on business, Burke sauntered over and Albert invited Burke to join him in a coffee. Smiling, Burke sat, stretching his long legs in Albert’s direction. While politely sipping their espresso, they reached an agreement. Burke would visit Albert at his hotel later that afternoon. When, the following week, Albert called Burke from Sangenello and invited Burke to the villa, Burke was elated. The invitation re-affirmed his flagging self image, that of a bright, good looking, well spoken young man, the perfect companion to someone older, someone feeling lonely. The growing shabbiness of his wardrobe he was able to ignore for the present.

     Staying at the villa in Sangenello, being as gracious as he could be, Burke’s hopes were high. Albert had remarked shortly after Burke’s arrival, and with an Imperial wave of the hand, that he was accustomed to having his companions sent down from Naples by a man there who arranged such things, causing Burke momentary concern.

     “But,” Albert continued, “Although they are good looking of course, they are impossible to introduce.”

     That remark gave Burke the hope that he, presentable and with some wit, could displace them. That is, he reflected a bit cynically, if they really existed. The reference to ‘companions from Naples’ might have been a device. It could be Albert’s way of controlling the relationship by suggesting that Burke could easily be replaced if things weren’t satisfactory.

     Burke had accepted that his patrons might now be older men, but then, so was he. Slim and well built Burke appeared about thirty. Actually he was nearly forty and his future was an immense, starless void. A future that, years back, friends had cautioned, would be upon him before he knew it.

     In those heady days Burke hadn’t a moment nor the patience to listen. Burke was more than handsome, he was stunning. He was called the “The Golden Boy.”

     Summering at Fire Island, the guest of a high profile Hollywood producer followed by winter trips to St. Barts with the producer’s New York rival, he rode rampant on his youth and beauty. It didn’t occur to him that he might be better off cultivating a relationship with one or the other rather than being the boy-toy of both.

     He went west with the Hollywood producer and was soon accompanying starlets to Hollywood openings and sleeping with their boyfriends. When the producer found someone new, and younger, Burke found work as a model for Colt Studio, the producer of magazines and films featuring nude and semi-nude, good looking, well built young men. It brought him attention and dates with wealthy, older men pleased to be seen with the Colt, “Man of the Month.”

     Burke maintained his distance. He played by the rules. He was available for a financial consideration, nothing less, nothing more.

     The years seemed to fly easily by but, after a time, Burke’s behavior, which had always been so determinedly gracious, would sometimes display a rougher edge. To his surprise he occasionally made a rude or cutting remark to one or another of his patrons. A look, first of disappointment, then anxious reality would cross his companions face. Burke would quickly laugh saying he was just joking, but silently he swore to be more careful, to drink less at meals. Certainly not let any of his annoyance or boredom show.

     But, his alliances, up to now, short, sweet and financially rewarding were becoming harder to find and it seemed that more effort on his part was required for him to be noticed. In the past, his emotional elusiveness and his air of invincibility gave him an attractive aura. It carried him through handsomely.

     But one evening in a hotel lobby mirror he had caught his reflection. He was on his way to see a client and the image he saw was that of a tired athlete approaching his final meet. He was stunned and stared at himself a moment, then quickly stepped sideways into the bar to have a quick drink and pull himself together.

     And then it happened. Burke was dumped and left stranded. It was at the Venice Film festival. The plain appearing young director from Sundance, Gary, who, besotted with Burke, had eagerly invited him to come along.

     “We’ll have a marvelous time. Venice is a magical city. You’ll love it.” Gary had said that night in New York when he learned that the festival would show his film.

     Gary won an award--to surprise and applause. So, with a rueful smile, handing Burke a fistful of Lira, he moved immediately into higher circles leaving Burke stunned. He had always been the one to leave, to make the graceful exit.

     For days Burke walked about the city, wondering just where to go, what next to do. In the evening he would loiter in the Piazza San Marco hoping for rescue. It came in the form of a middle aged Russian who, after a few days acquaintance, took him to Rome where he was a cultural attache. Their secret arrangement added another few months of security for Burke but the attache finally panicked and Burke was again out on his own. Burke knew no one in the city and his funds, the lira from Gary and some dollars from the attache, were running low.

     He tried for work as an extra at Cinecitta, the Italian film center on the outskirts of Rome, but there was little available. Felini had made his last movie and the once renowned center of European film making was in steep decline. On the bus back into Rome, Burke began to suspect that, while he was otherwise engaged, the party had moved on and for the first time, he felt truly frightened and unsure of himself.

     And then on the Via Veneto, at Doney’s, he met Albert Claude.

     The invitation to the villa was providential and Burke now had time in this quiet seaside place to take stock of himself and of his prospects. After Burke had been in residence for a few weeks, Albert left, accompanied by old friend from Germany, on a pre-arranged trip to Sicily giving Burke encouragement by suggesting that Burke stay on and watch over the villa while Albert was away.

     Burke first thought to invite some people down from Rome, but on looking over the potential guest list, a collection of rootless drifters posing as writers or painters, he rejected the idea. He wouldn’t want to be a disappointment to Albert if someone misbehaved.

     As he sat sipping the lukewarm coffee, Burke wondered if Celeste’s brusqueness was because of a recent encounter of his. Walking the beach below the villa a week or so back, he had come upon a handsome young boy repairing nets. The boy, who looked about sixteen, was barefoot and wearing only a pair of shorts. He was broad shouldered and his upper arms were well muscled. A fisherboy thought Burke who squatted down next to the young man and, in his practiced, disarming way, attempted to have a conversation with him. Burke’s Italian was poor and the boy, not understanding a word, could only respond with a friendly grin. After a long silence, the boys eyes back on his work, his fingers busily repairing the netting which was bunched in his lap, Burke reached out and with a little nodding smile ran his hand over the boy’s bare upper leg. Their eyes locked. The moment seemed to go on for ages. Then the boy, dropping his tools, stood and walked, then ran, quickly away.

     Burke got up, lit a cigarette and continued along the beach. The boy was simply shy, he told himself, embarrassed perhaps, unused to a more sophisticated understanding and outlook on life, as, idly kicking stones from his path, he neared the walk that led up to the villa. Still a shiver of anxiety caused him to question that assumption and his actions.

     Glancing toward Celeste, her back still toward him, he got up and poured himself the re-heated coffee, lacing it with sugar from a bowl on the table. Celeste, now busily folding and stacking sheets and towels, paid him no mind.

     On the days that followed, the local merchants, usually so friendly, particularly to the foreigners who lived or visited at Sangenello, seemed to be less so, to be abrupt when dealing with him, Burke thought. Then there was the boy. In town he seemed to be everywhere, turning a corner, going into a shop, or just standing in the square talking with his friends, his eyes glancing toward and then away from Burke.

     What did he want? What was he telling his companions? Burke wondered nervously. Why the hell wasn’t he out fishing Burke whined to himself. He began taking different routes back to the villa to avoid the youth, breathing hard as he climbed the stone paths rather than walk the road, the easier way home.

     Were the shopkeepers really being rude or where they just very busy at the moment? Could he be feeling guilt, seeing things that weren’t there? And Celeste? Perhaps she had some troubles. He hadn’t thought to ask. Burke became anxious for Albert’s return. Albert Claude. His presence would certainly make everything right again. He resolved to be more attentive to Albert, to encourage in Albert the idea that he, Burke, the charming young American,

     might be willing to settle down.

     One evening, climbing back up to the villa after a swim, still waiting for Albert’s return, the fisherboy appeared from the shadows, and for a few steps followed Burke up the pathway. Burke turned and stopped, heart pounding. The boy also stopped and stood looking at him silently. A long moment passed as they stared at each other.

     Burke suddenly had the urge to go and simply embrace the boy but the boy, as Burke turned toward him, picked up a stone and threw it at Burke, at the same time hissing, “Mi lasce in pace,”

     The boy turned and ran back down the steps. Burke remained standing there, confused by his own impulse, stunned by the boy’s violence, his outburst, “Leave me alone...leave me in peace.”

     Burke spent restless nights thinking about the boy. If he wanted to be left in peace, why was he always making himself so evident? Burke wasn’t stalking or following him. Could it be that something had been awakened by Burke? Desires that this young man felt but didn’t understand which left him angry, confused and in distress.

     On a bright sunny morning Burke dressed and prepared to go into town. Perhaps he could talk with the boy. Calm things down. Suggest to him that there was a misunderstanding.

     He went down to the kitchen and found, propped up against his empty coffee cup, a telegram sent from Taormina, the last stop in Albert’s tour of Sicily. He opened it.

     Albert wrote that he had run into old friends who were also visiting the Greek ruins at Siracusa. He had invited them back to the villa. Burke would understand, but there simply was not enough room. Burke would have to leave. Besides, it would probably be boring for Burke to be with German speaking guests.

     They would be arriving that evening. He had telephoned Celeste and she was making arrangements.

     Albert wrote of their stay in Palermo, the Sicilian capital. He described the lovely hotel and then mentioned the beaches which swarmed with restless young men. It brought to mind the film “Suddenly, Last Summer,” he wrote. Had Burke ever seen it? If not, he must. It was about an encounter with seaside ragazzi and the bitter consequences, Albert added, before abruptly closing the letter with the polite hope that Burke had enjoyed the use of the villa.

     Burke looked in the envelope hoping for something more, a money order perhaps, but the letter was all.

     Folding the letter and envelope he went up to his room and looked around, then he stepped out on the balcony. Feeling empty and lost he stared blankly at the sky and the distant coastline then glanced down to the beach. The young fisherboy was there with others piling nets aboard a boat, ready to push off into the sea. “Stupid boy, stupid boy” Burke said to himself. After a moment, still to himself, but more gently, he repeated, “Which stupid boy?” And he turned and walked back into the bedroom.

    He packed his few things and, leaving the villa, walked the road up to the Espresso Bar for the bus to Naples, a three hour trip. He didn’t have enough cash to get as far as Rome.

     As the bus snaked along the twisting road toward Sorrento, Burke glanced at the sea far below. It was incredibly blue, ridged with row upon row of small waves, their lacy crests sparkling in the bright sun. Suddenly he began to weep. Tears came streaming down his face. He was stunned and tried to control himself but the crying was unstoppable. He bent over, putting his head to his knees. The tears continued. At last, with a deep gasp of breath, the outburst came to an end and Burke slowly sat up. For a moment he felt an enormous release. He saw his life clearly. He would make a change. He could telephone. Make a call, get someone to send money for a plane ticket. He looked slowly down and stared at his scuffed shoes. Who? He asked himself. Who could he call? Gary? Could he call Gary? Gary was probably at Sony Pictures by now. He laughed at himself as tears again welled. He slumped low leaning his head on the window frame. The bus was now passing through the small industrial towns strung along the Bay of Naples. ‘See Naples and Die’ he said sardonically laughing to himself looking out at smoking cement plants, oil storage depots. ‘See Naples’...his thoughts went no further.

     The bus terminal where Burke got off was at the railroad station. It was late evening and dark. He asked directions, then shouldering his bag, walked to the address of the man who, Albert claimed, had sent boys to Sangenello, to Albert Claude. He had discovered the telephone and street numbers while frantically searching through Albert’s desk looking for some money earlier that day.

     After Burkes repeated knocks, a man finally opened the door to the house.

     “I need a place to stay. Albert Claude has mentioned your name.” Burke said, with frightened eyes.

     “And so he told you I sent him boys?”

     “Well, he suggested that you arranged for young men to visit for a few days.”

     “To sleep with him?”

     “Ah--that’s what I understood.”

     “Hah! That German, always so taken with himself. Such fantasies. Let me tell you, Mr. Ber’ke, I am a landscaper. Here in Naples and other places.

     Sorrento, Santa Margharita, wherever someone want a garden, wants to have a wall. You have seen, yes? At Sangenello there are gardens for those people who can afford them. The Tedeschi, the Swedes, some Americans. I send young workers to cut stone, build walls, but that is all they do. If Mr. Albert Claude, for some reason, wants you to think they did more, well I can tell you they didn’t.”

     Listening to the man describe his work, Burke remembered his childhood, his youth. He remembered he and his father digging, planting. Everybody in town had a vegetable garden, fruit trees. His mother’s sour cherry pie was famous. His father had planted the tree when he, Burke, was born. Burke remembered loving the soil, the feel of it through his fingers, the smell--the man was still speaking--“so, I can do nothing for you, Mr. Ber’ke. Go to the Statzione Termini. You will meet someone there, perhaps.”

     “I’m sorry, excuse me, please, per favore, it is only what was told to me, what Albert told me.”

     “So, why are you here? Did you think that I would be a--what do you say? A pimp? Yes, a pimp for you.”

     “No, no, I didn’t think that. I didn’t come to you for that. Yours is the only name I know in Naples. I have no money and nowhere else to go.” Burke paused.

     The man poured himself a cup of coffee from a small tin espresso pot, badly dented with age. After a sip he looked at Burke, his brows lifted, a question darkening his eyes.

     “What do you expect from me then?”

     “I know that I want something...not from you...something from me. I am not sure yet what it is. I can work for you. I can dig holes, plant trees. I did it when I was young. I can work. I don’t need much.”

     “You have been at Albert’s villa living well, yes? And maybe living well before from what you tell me. My work is hard...long and hard.”

     “I can do it.” Burke replied.” I can work. I think I need to work, work hard. I won’t disappoint you.”

     The man looked at Burke closely, his head cocked to the side, and after a long pause, pointing to a doorway off of the kitchen, said, “You can sleep in there. It is a spare room here downstairs. We will see tomorrow how well you do. I will pay you what I pay my local men and we will see how you do.”

     He got up, refilled his coffee cup and began going over some papers on the kitchen counter, his back to Burke. Burke looked at him. He was a nice looking solidly built man in his forties, tanned by the sun, muscled by the work.

     “Thank you,” Burke said.

     The man turned his head and looked at Burke. “I wasn’t always landscaper. Once I was a fisherboy...in Sangenello. Albert Claude, he gave me the money to start my business. I pay him back, of course. Such fantasies Albert Claude has, such fantasies.”

     Burke looked at the man, his breath momentarily on hold. Then he rose and took his things into the side room.

     He began to unpack.

Jack Dowling aka DKLuke
55 Bethune Street H524
New York, New York 10014

jdowling@nyc.rr.com

Copyright 2007. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.