Part 1, Chapter 2 - February, 1992
Swimming pools for James were desirable, but dangerous, places. Numerous summer days at his local Muswellbrook pool had persuaded him of that by providing him with a heady concoction of carefree innocent pleasure in the water and on the diving board and the secret sensual delights of the changing room and showers. The risks associated with loitering and looking for too long in these intoxicating recesses had been happily offset by the more inconspicuous pastime of lying in the sun on the pool's grassy surrounds watching any male his age or older climb from the water with dripping legs and torso. He had especially liked the way the trails of water, obeying the laws of gravity, traced their paths down chest and stomach, framing and shaping the tongue of hair that descended from the navel only to disappear beneath the bow of the Speedo's drawstrings into the darkness of the interior. But, above all else, the wearer's wet nylon Speedos had generally revealed the contours of the very item they were designed to conceal. But these were very secret pleasures, confined to the hidden passages of his brain. They could not, must not, be shared with anybody else. They were a one-way ticket to trouble, to the solitude of exclusion, to the pain of ridicule.
And, with that thought very much in mind, James lolled about in the water while he waited for the changing rooms to clear of the thirty or so cocks that would be briefly exposed as the Year 11 boys of Payne House changed after early-morning House swimming trials. Only when Farrer, the House Captain, bellowed at him to `get a move on' did he glide to the far end of the pool, adroitly lift himself up and over its tiled edge, collect and then wrap his towel around his waist.
As he headed for the changing rooms back behind the starting blocks, he looked down at the rippled green synthetic pool edging that tickled his bare feet. When he looked up to ascertain if he was still to be the target of Farrer's next outburst, he spotted a lone figure lurking quietly in the far corner, close to the changing room entrance. Though the eyes were covered by goggles, James could tell that he was the object of their gaze. David's pose was liquid and lazy. His right shoulder leaned against the wall, one skinny leg was bent slightly at the knee and crossed the other which bore his weight, his arms were loosely folded, and his head tilted slightly in that curious way that heads often do when they are puzzled by something. His long black hair hung straight and wet like an old mop, and the merest suggestion of a smile hovered on his lips. Discomfited, James hurried his steps and averted his eyes . but not before he had noticed the two prominent dark nipples, the smooth alabaster skin of the torso, the narrow waist and jutting hips, the slick of black hair running from a small belly-button down to the centre of a pair of low-slung black Speedos, the cheeky projection of his water-shrivelled cock, and the shapely slender white thighs.
Why had he looked away so hurriedly? Why had he felt the heat of a blush in his cheeks? It was the same pang of self-recrimination he had always felt when his eyes had fleetingly met those of a Speedo-wearer who had been the object of his furtive inspection. Always the same questions had pulsed through his panicking brain. Had his peek lingered a moment too long? Had his secret been uncovered? Was he going to be called on to explain himself? Was he going to be challenged or reproached? Worse still, was he going to be made an offer that he couldn't afford to accept? Only once had he allowed his defences to be breached. It had now been two years since that day with Angus in his family's shearing shed. There had been nothing unusual about James spending Saturday afternoon on the Murrays' property with Angus, and nothing unusual when Angus had said that they needed to call into the shearing shed to pick up a can of sheep drench for his dad. But it had been unusual when Angus had grabbed at James's dick and had proceeded to expose his own, proud and erect. A clumsy mutual hand-job had left James in a state of misery and shame, and with a firm resolve that such sordidness would never be repeated.
So, why, two nights ago, had he lain in his bed in the darkness after supper re-playing over and over in his head that minute movement of David's lips that he had fleetingly registered as he had left the Duty Room? As easily as it could have been construed as a semi-smile, it could just as easily have been intended as a contemptuous smirk. Why had it mattered what it was? Why did it still matter?
Reluctantly looking up in order to navigate his way into the changing room, James registered with relief, tinged with a measure of regret, that David had evaporated. The changing room would be empty, and he would be late for breakfast if he didn't hurry. As he stepped into the sterilised environment of white tiles and fluorescent light, he was seized by a moment of panic that the only other occupant might be David. The space, however, was bare, save for a wet towel, several pairs of wet Speedos and half a dozen swim caps carelessly draped over the low wooden benches or lying discarded on the tiled floor. Once again his relief had to co-exist with disappointment.
"Jesus wept, Daniel Preece! We've been discussing
Humanism for the best part of a week, and you still
can't give me a respectable definition of it. Truly,
boy, you are an intellectual tragedy".
Enjoying the general mirth at Preece's expense, Phillip
waited until it had subsided before delivering another
thrust.
"This subject is not some soft option like Biology or
Accounting. It requires an ability to read, some vague
capacity to think, a level of cultural sensitivity and
a willingness to do some work. What I suggest, Daniel,
is that you assess your competence in those areas and,
having discovered that you are sadly deficient in all
of them, go to Mr Tait and arrange a transfer to
Geography where you can use your coloured pencils".
James could sense that David, seated at the desk in
front of him, was trying hard to contain his laughter.
The rest of the class sat in stunned silence. Phillip,
who secretly relished these humiliations, glared at the
unfortunate Preece. He then spread his arms, smiled
benignly, and, as if nothing had happened, continued:
"Because the early Humanists were concerned to stress
the intellectual capacity of man, they needed to go
back over a thousand years to find a society in which
men took centre stage. Why was that, Singleton?"
"Because the medieval Christian scholars considered man
to be powerless in the face of an all-powerful God",
came the competent response.
"Good. So this took them back to the societies of
ancient Greece and Rome, and their first task was to
master the languages of those societies - which were,
Silverwood?"
James was caught off guard. He had been wondering
exactly who it had been that had been responsible for
his proximity to David, while simultaneously admiring
the black snakeskin belt that perfectly co-ordinated
with the pink of Phillip's linen shirt and the mid-grey
of his tailored trousers.
"Er. Latin and Greek, Mr Moore".
"Good. By the late Trecento - the meaning of that term,
please, Chiu?"
"The fourteenth century".
"Yep. By the late 1300s, Humanist scholars all over
Italy were hunting down ancient Latin and Greek
manuscripts not only for the purpose of mastering the
languages, but mainly in order to gain access to the
wisdom of such ancient philosophers and historians as
Cicero, Livy, Aristotle, Seneca and many others."
Unlikely to again be prey to Phillip's relentless
crusade to unearth ignorance, James returned to the
issue of seating arrangements. Who had gravitated to
whom? Although he would have been flattered to conclude
that he had been the magnet, he couldn't in all
conscience be certain that it hadn't been the other way
around. Why did this boy gnaw at the edges of his
resolve? Certainly he found him attractive, but that
wasn't a satisfactory explanation. Maybe it was his
demeanour of bored self-assurance, of `who-gives-a-
fuck' insolence, of intimidating untouchability? Most
of all, he realised, it was that very imperviousness
that was the candle to his moth. What lay behind that
impenetrable veneer of indifference, mystery and non-
conformity? Unlike Callo and Travis, he wasn't
dismissive of it. On the contrary, he was lured, like
Columbus exactly 500 years before him, to venture into
the unknown. But there are dangers in the unknown, and
James knew instinctively that David meant Danger. And
it would, he knew, be danger with dimensions that he
could not even guess at. And, even as he asked himself
if he would run the risk of catastrophe, he already
knew the answer.
"Who can suggest where they may have discovered all
these manuscripts? And how had they had survived for so
long?"
"Yes, David Mulholland?"
"Most of them were found in monasteries, in which they
had been copied and re-copied by hand over the
centuries by monastic scholars", ventured David
silkily.
"Yes. That's a very good answer. If I get sick, you can
take over".
David, however, did not acknowledge the compliment, and
the lesson continued, with Phillip expounding on the
characteristics of a Humanist education program.
"Right, just before you pack up, write down the
homework, please. Using pages 235 to 240 of your
Brucker text and the documents I have copied for you,
list the subjects that were the core of a Humanist
education, and find quotes in the documents that
suggest why they were so important. OK, understand?"
**
"Shit, why don't any of you guys do Renaissance
History? I can't make head nor tail of this Cicero
guy".
James sat at his desk frustrated at his lack of
progress in completing his History homework.
"Go and ask Mother Fucking Superior in 11.5", sneered
Travis.
"Actually", replied James, "that's not a bad idea". For
the best part of an hour, he had been thinking of doing
precisely that, but he didn't want to risk Travis's
ridicule if it looked like his own initiative. Now,
however, if questioned, he could attribute the idea to
Travis.
Casually - but with his insides churning - James got up
from his chair, gathered his sheaf of documents, his
textbook and his History folder, and, with pen clenched
between his teeth, opened the door of Study 11.3 and
disappeared into the corridor.
The rules were clear. Only in a dire emergency was a
boy to leave his Study during Prep. He only had ten
metres to negotiate and the carpet aided and abetted
his stealth. He tapped lightly on the door of 11.5 and
pushed it open. David's cubicle was located in the same
position as his own, and when he turned to face it, he
was greeted by the sight of chaos. Items of school
uniform were strewn haphazardly over the bed and floor;
three large books, all open, rested on the bed; and a
large Megadeth poster was bluetacked above the bed
head. A smaller poster of Nirvana was stuck to the
wardrobe door, and the floor was littered with CDs and
empty CD cases. Amid the mess, David sat at his desk
moshing to the heavy beat that faintly reached James's
ears from the headphones that were partly hidden from
sight by the gyrating mop of black hair. He was turned
slightly away from the door, and on the back of his
black T-shirt were the words `YNGWIE FUCKIN MALMSTEEN'
in white paint. He wore black jeans and his feet were
bare.
David was unaware of James's presence, and James was on
the point of turning tail without disturbing him when a
ball of paper lobbed over the wardrobe-desk unit and
landed softly in David's lap.
"Hey, Mulholland", came an obviously Chinese voice,
"We've got a visitor and please turn that crap down".
Whether or not David heard the words, he was certainly
startled by the paper ball lobbing into his lap, and he
turned to see James standing in the doorway. Removing
his headphones, he smiled gently and said softly, "This
is an unexpected pleasure. How can I help you, Senor
Silverwood?"
Encouraged by David's not unfriendly greeting, James
replied:
"First, what on earth is Yngwie Fuckin Malmsteen? And,
secondly, I was hoping you might be able to help me
understand this Cicero stuff".
"No worries, man, happy to be of service. It's not
what' is Yngwie Malmsteen? - it's who' is Yngwie
Malmsteen? See", and he now pointed to the front of his
T-shirt which said `MALMSTEEN WHO?'.
"He's this incredible Swedish rock guitarist whose
stuff is just awesome. I'll lend you a CD if you like.
Nobody in Australia has ever heard of him, of course.
Sorry, no offence".
"None taken", James reassured him.
"Now, about Cicero. . Clear some of that shit on the
bed and grab a seat".
"Won't we disturb your dorm mates?"
"Is it OK if we talk for a few minutes, Jimmy", David
called across the room to Jimmy Ho.
"It'll be better than all that head-banger crap that
escapes from your earphones", replied Jimmy lightly.
"Thanks, man", and, turning back to James, "The other
two are in the House library. . OK, Cicero was the king
dick intellectual - you might even say, the conscience
- of the Roman republic before Julius Ceasar's bid to
end the republic by having himself crowned king.
Although this failed, his nasty little nephew Octavian
eventually grabbed power and declared himself the
Emperor Augustus. Anyway, Cicero could sense the danger
of the republic being overthrown, and he pleaded with
his fellow citizens in the Senate to demonstrate their
commitment to the liberty of the republic. So he gave
lots of speeches and wrote lots of letters and so on,
in which he praised the republic. He realised that if
educated Romans were going to preserve the republic
against would-be tyrants, they needed to show some
commitment to it, and the best way of showing this was
through a life of service to the community. For this
and also for persuading the Roman plebs not to fall for
the bullshit of people like Caesar, they needed the
skills of speaking and writing. So, he stressed how
subjects like rhetoric, history, law and philosophy
were important to a man's education, and you can see
those ideas in the documents that Moore gave us. Does
that make sense?"
"Actually, it does. So," ventured James, "the Humanists
in the Renaissance adopted these ideas on the grounds
that, if men were going to be responsible for their own
destiny and progress, they were going to need the same
skills, rather than relying on the bloody church to
dictate to them. Is that right?"
"Yes, although there's another aspect to it which I am
sure Moore will get to next lesson. I also agree with
your description of the church".
"Yeah, I thought you would".
"How come?"
"From what you said in class about religion being
nonsense".
"You remember what I said in class?"
Flushing, James admitted that he did.
"Hey, man, I like the way you blush. I've noticed it
before".
Feeling awkward, but not wanting to leave, James turned
to the books on the bed and noticed that they all
displayed colour photographs of paintings.
"Are you interested in art?"
"In Italian Renaissance art, yeah. Especially Florence.
I was there last year with my mother and I brought
these books back with me. Actually, I can't wait for
Moore to get off Humanism, and on to Florence. Now that
we're getting rid of Preece, it should be soon".
The bell rang for the end of compulsory prep.
"I'd better get to bed", said James.
As tedious as he found it, Phillip had to admit that cricket had had one civilising impact on those parts of the globe that had once laboured under the British yoke. Throughout urban conglomerates from Bombay to Brisbane it had been responsible for the creation of a myriad of charming recreational havens. It was alongside one of these that, on most summer Saturday afternoons, Phillip reclined on his canvas lounger and unwound after a hectic week with Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald or a book and the oddly comforting sound of ball on bat. Shaded by the untamed overhanging branches of a row of plane trees and occasionally warmed by the sunlight that managed to penetrate gaps in the foliage opened up from time to time by a gentle breeze, he could also surreptitiously assess the beauty of the athletic young men who comprised the visiting team.
Today it was the boys of the pompously-named The King Edward Grammar School who had come to do battle with North Sydney Grammar, and their accompanying entourage was ensconced on a verge of lush grass a little way to his left. Several large market umbrellas in the school's red and navy provided protection from the sun for the casually, but carefully, dressed group. Most of the women sat upright in canvas chairs, some nursing infants or at least controlling their wanderings by means of red plastic leashes. Their chatter, carried on the breeze, broached the usual subjects: the outrageous price of smoked salmon; Clarice Potter's drinking problem; the venue of next Tuesday morning's tennis; and how `gorgeous' the boys looked in their new caps. By contrast, the men either lounged in brightly coloured recliners or paced nervously round the boundary line, depending on whose son was currently involved in deflating or inflating his father's ego. Thumbed and folded copies of the Financial Review, empty plastic cups and beakers, bowls of water for the golden retrievers, and an assortment of mobile phones littered the ground.
Though irritated by the women's strident volubility, practised and perfected as an accessory to prosperity, the voyeur in Phillip wanted to take a closer look. He now rose nimbly from his lounger and, ostensibly to `stretch his legs', began a deliberate perambulation of the field for the actual purpose of more closely observing, and inwardly deriding, the foibles of Sydney's Upper North Shore nouveau set. "Melissa, come here, darling. Don't run over the white line, darling, or that horrid red ball might hit and hurt you". How the white line would provide some magical protection for Melissa was not explained. Nevertheless, Melissa, beautifully attired in Gumboots and Oshmekosh, waddled back reluctantly to Mummy. "And, Charles, get Tonto's nose out of the strawberry shortcake, would you. And please pass me the sunscreen from the green bag. And, while you've got it in hand, make sure you put plenty on that nose of yours." Charles naturally obeyed, hiding his reluctance more successfully than his three-year old daughter. The piece de resistance of the afternoon tea picnic fare was rescued, as was, at least for today, the health of Charles's nose.
Leaving Charles to his domestic misery, Phillip continued his perambulation in the direction of the gaggle of his own school's parents. The group could have been cloned from that he had just observed, save for the colours of the market umbrellas. He toyed with performing a U-turn, thereby avoiding having to exchange pleasantries with mothers whose names he could never remember. What stopped him from executing this act of cowardice was the arrival on the boundary line some twenty metres ahead of him of James Silverwood, who had been despatched by his captain to protect the boundary against a mounting battery of aggressive hook shots.
The boy, he thought, was really quite impressive. He'd only been at the school for three - or was it four? - weeks and he seemed to have made a seamless transition from the insularity of a rural high school to the bustle of one of Sydney's most prestigious private schools. He was personable, he had a few brains and he was in the School XI. That probably explains why he won the scholarship. And, noting the way in which his fitted cricket shirt flattered his burgeoning muscularity, Phillip noted that he wasn't bad looking either. As he got closer to where James was absorbed in his fielding duties, he focused on the boy's face, which was tanned in coppery tones that matched his short, though roughly cut, hair. A band of freckles spread across his nose ending on both cheekbones, which were high and prominent. The jaw was wide, giving the face a masculinity that suggested strength of will and lack of fear. Bright, eager blue eyes complemented the warmth and trust of the uninhibited smile, with which he now greeted Phillip. His parted red lips produced a dimple in both cheeks and revealed a row of sparkling white teeth, with just a hint of a gap between the two top front ones. "Hi, Mr Moore. Thank God it's tea. We're getting whipped." As James broke into a trot towards the temporary haven of the pavilion, Phillip concluded that below the boy's sunny optimism lay a defenceless vulnerability and a naivety bred of inexperience.
Phillip watched as David Mulholland stepped out of the shadows of the trees to greet James, and, whilst he couldn't hear their conversation, he became conscious of the easy laughter. He observed that the encounter lacked the usual adolescent male element of sham aggression, which was meant to proclaim machismo and to fend off any suggestion of being `sissy'. Yet, neither boy seemed at all self-conscious about their relaxed, transparent familiarity. It was, Phillip concluded, so uncharacteristic of the species that there must be a dimension to these boys and their fellowship that transcended the normal immaturity and gaucheness of teenage behaviour. The meeting lasted no more than a few minutes. James, clearly conscious of the need to re-join his team-mates, terminated the rendezvous and, with a smile and wave of the hand, headed on to the pavilion.
Phillip easily dismissed the tiny note of disquiet in his head as he saw David consult his watch and head off with unaccustomed haste towards Payne House. He himself gathered up his newspapers, folded his lounger and ambled off in the same direction. He had an appointment to keep.
Phillip became conscious of a tentative knock on the door. "Come", he bellowed in his usual economic way. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Moore, but could you please sign my leave form? My parents are coming down to see me this weekend and I'll stay with them at their hotel after cricket." "Certainly, James. Come in. This is a most unexpected pleasure". Blushing, James crossed the threshold and stood awkwardly. "Sit down, sit down. Cup of poison? It's only instant, I'm afraid. How do you have it?" Phillip asked, not waiting for James to nod his assent. "White with two, please".
As Phillip bustled over to the tiny kitchenette in the corner of the flat, James took a seat on a black leather two-seater and took in his surroundings. The harsh fluorescent light that permeated every other nook and cranny of Payne House did not apply in here. The tube was there on the ceiling alright, but Phillip chose to live and work in the creamier and more subtle light provided by three free-standing lamps, one of which was a brass and green glass lamp positioned on a small cedar table that obviously served as a desk since it was piled high with books and papers and had a sturdy wooden desk chair on old-fashioned castors in front of it. The second light was a tall art deco aluminium uplight, located just behind and to the left of the two-seater, and the third was a Japanese rice paper lantern that stood in the far corner of the flat next to the door that led out onto a small balcony. A chrome and black leather armchair sat unoccupied in front of the floor length window that adjoined the balcony door and was within easy reach of a state-of-the-art hi-fi system, which gently filled the room with the strains of a Boccherini guitar concerto. A small television and video recorder sat on top of a single-drawer antique oak filing cabinet between the Japanese lantern and another door, this one opening into a darkened space, presumably the bedroom. Finally, in the middle of the room sat a low highly polished mahogany occasional table, on which was scattered a number of plain dark green coasters to protect the surface from the heat of coffee mugs and carelessly spilt coffee. The table sat on an exquisitely woven silk rug of oriental design whose predominant colours were a peachy pink and a soft beige. The rug largely hid the dirty brown of the Payne House carpet, and four large prints in walnut frames performed the same function as far as the concrete- block walls were concerned. The one on the wall directly facing James portrayed ten totally naked men attacking each other with swords, daggers, an axe and a bow and arrows. Though this was eye-catching enough, it was the print on the wall above the desk that really caught James's attention. Before he could examine it closely, however, he heard the chink of teaspoon stirring coffee.
Phillip placed James's coffee on a coaster on the low table, asking: "Fruit cake or shortbread?" "Fruit cake, please, Mr Moore." "In here you can call me Phillip. But only in here, OK?" Seating himself on the desk chair, Phillip went on: "So, James, you seem to have settled in very nicely. Friends in the House and success at cricket. Yes? And you seem to be getting the hang of Renaissance Italy?" "Yes, on all counts . Phillip. Actually, I love the History now. David Mulholland has been helping me a bit with it, and that's made quite a difference."
When Phillip returned with more coffee and cake, James asked: "What got you interested in the Renaissance?" "Well, a teacher at school actually and then I studied the subject at university. I became really interested in fifteenth century Florentine painting, with its innovation of one-point perspective and its focus on the representation of the human body. Hence," - and Phillip gestured to the four prints with both arms - "the paintings on the walls in here". James quickly glanced at the two prints that had so far avoided his attention. "But they're all of naked or semi-naked men. Didn't they also paint women?" "Yes, of course, but what intrigued me was the disproportionate number of scantily-clad men in the paintings. Until Botticelli late in the century, women were usually portrayed in religious settings, and were generally fully clothed. And there was something else about the men. Look at this one." Phillip pointed to the print above the desk that had earlier caught James's attention.
Looking at it again, James saw an attractive young man, clad only in a loin cloth that hung so low that it exposed his pubic hair, tethered to a vine-covered tree. Arrows pierced his side and thigh, and one had passed right through his neck, sending trickles of blood from both the entry and exit wounds. Hovering above him and holding a golden coronet in both hands, was a winged angel. In the background was a landscape of wooded hills, ancient ruins and a flowing river, all bathed in the golden aura radiating from the angel. But what was most pronounced was the young man's body and the expression of agonised ecstasy on his boyish face.
"What strikes you most about the painting?" Phillip asked ever so suggestively. James blushed involuntarily, but was not deterred. "Well, it seems to be basically the same as these other two. All of them are of the same thing - a guy shot with arrows. And all the guys are almost undressed and they all look really young. Who were these guys?" "Exactly. All of that is what occurred to me and it made me wonder why. The subject of all three paintings - and there are a whole lot more of him - is Saint Sebastian, a Roman officer in the emperor Diocletian's army who was martyred for converting to Christianity. Essentially they are religious paintings, but you wouldn't know it. What seems to have been far more important to the artists are the androgynous beauty of the boys - you could hardly call them men -, the sensuality of their bodies, and their erotic swooning. And so many artists at that time painted him like that. Why? It was as if he provided a convenient excuse for a soft porn painting." Phillip was warming to his subject, and James, still slightly flushed, was fascinated. "So, I decided to find out something about the artists. This one above the desk was painted by Giovanni Antonio Bazzi, a Sienese painter who lived in Florence. The art historian Giorgio Vasari tells us that Bazzi was so well known for his erotic interest in young men that he was known by everyone as Il Sodoma, the sodomite. But then I discovered an odd thing. The more paintings of Saint Sebastian that I found, the more that the erotic ones seemed to be confined to fifteenth century artists in Florence. And then I came across this article by a historian named Michael Rocke." Phillip now leaned over the desk, and retrieved a book, which James could see was entitled Male Homosexuality in Renaissance and Enlightenment Europe. "It's in this. You can read it if you like. Rocke argues that homosexuality was so widespread in Florence that the 15th century German word for a homosexual was florenzer. He quotes sources that describe how parents often deliberately dressed up their young sons in provocative and immodest clothing to make them targets for older guys so that the parents would gain financially when their son attracted a wealthy suitor. He comes to the conclusion that homosexuality - the Florentines called it `sodomy' - was so common that it came to be regarded as an integral part of male culture and a normal part of the life experience of most Florentine males under thirty. And this occurred even though it was outlawed by the state and the church."
James did not wish to make his interest too obvious, so, in as matter-of-fact tone as he could feign, he asked: "But why was it so prevalent?"
"Good question. Rocke and others that the explanation is largely to do with the marriage patterns in Florence at the time. Girls were usually married off between the ages of 13 and 15. If a girl wasn't married by the age of 16, she was usually sent to a nunnery. Boys, on the other hand, seldom married before the age of 30 or 31. They weren't considered to be mature enough to engage in the city's economic and political activities before that age, and they were therefore incapable of supporting a wife and family until their late 20s at the earliest. Now, just think about what this meant. When males were at their sexually most rampant, there weren't any available girls. So what do you think they did? Well, I'm sure you could probably use your imagination, but I'll tell you. They had sex with each other, and usually these liaisons involved an active older male and a passive younger boy".
James felt his face burning, and he now sought to divert the conversation. "What's that one over there with the naked guys killing each other?" Phillip laughed and replied, "It's called Battle of Ten Nudes by Antonio Pollaiuolo. But that's another story, and it's getting late. Just one last thing before you go. Homosexuality had become so prevalent in Florence that in 1432 the state created a special police force, the Office of the Night. In the 70 years of its existence, over 17,000 Florentine males were accused of homosexual behaviour at least once. That's two out of every three males. Now, what do you think of that?" "Christ, is that for real? Or are you just taking the piss out of me?" "No, I'm not, as you so colourfully put it, taking the piss out of you. It's all true. Now get off to bed. And feel free to call in again."
James stood to go, but his progress towards the door was arrested by an extraordinary object, hitherto unnoticed due to its position in the corner slightly behind where he had been sitting. It was a large carved wooden owl, draped in a black felt hooded cloak. On its head sat a tall unlit candle, attached to which was a small sign that said `This is the true light'. "What on earth is that?', James asked. "Like the Pollaiuolo, that's another story. But it's one I will tell you another time you visit. Now, if you don't go to bed, I'll be in trouble. OK?"
"I have already told you that the entry to his flat was through a battered, flaking green, old wood-framed flywire door, which squeaked every time it opened and closed. He said that he liked the noise it made, that it acted as a sort of sign that he was about to receive a visitor, and that it meant that he could always keep the solid timber door open. The first time I ever saw that door closed against the outside world was one late afternoon in early May during my second year at the school. He had been working at his desk as usual, and I had been curled up on the sofa listening to Vivaldi . or was it Gabrielli? Well, it was one of the two, because by then he had mesmerised me with the art and music of Renaissance Venice. Anyway, he suddenly stood up and closed the timber door, saying that he was feeling a bit nippy'. I must say that I was somewhat surprised at this, because we had had colder days than that one without the door being closed. Soon after, he said that he needed to take a shower before dinner, but that I could stay while he did so. Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened and he called out to me, Phillip, I left my towel on the window sill. Would you mind bringing it in here for me?' At the time I thought nothing at all of his request, and, still captivated by the music, I went to the window, picked up the towel and pushed open the door to his little bathroom. What I saw then I can see just as clearly in my mind today. He was standing there facing me stark naked. I didn't know what to do or, more to the point, what he wanted me to do. I would have done literally anything to please him. The trouble was that, at that moment, I had absolutely no sense of what would please him. So, I simply handed him the towel and, closing the door behind me, retreated to the sofa."
"So what did you make of it later?" Tim Murphy made the question sound as matter-of-fact as asking someone his name.
"I suppose that, for many twelve year-old boys, the sight of a naked man would have been entirely unremarkable. Maybe, I thought, that was what he assumed. Maybe there had been no more to it than his simple explanation. And yet there was clearly premeditation. Why else did he close the door? He had clearly wanted me to see him like that. And, for me, it was anything but unremarkable. I had no older brothers and I had never seen my father without clothes. As I lay in my dormitory bed that night, I tried to sort out my reactions. I knew beyond doubt that some boundary had been crossed, that there was something forbidden about what had happened. But I also knew that I did not want to expunge the image from my memory. Rather, I wanted to enhance it, and in my mind I zoomed in for a close-up of his cock tumbling from the thatch of fair hair and resting on the elongated sack that housed his balls. I found it peculiarly arousing, and the outcome of that arousal was my first ejaculation, which caused feelings of shame and guilt. Next day, neither of us said anything, and everything returned to `normal' . except for what thereafter happened regularly in my bed once the lights went out."
Phillip lapsed into a silence, which he expected Tim to break. But he did not. He simply wrote himself a clipped note, and looked at Phillip benignly for what seemed an eternity.
"For the duration of that second winter, life in Luke's flat followed its by-then familiar pattern, and even on the bleakest day the timber door remained open, sheltered from the icy winds as it was by a brush fence. But with the onset of spring, that season of renewal and fertility, Luke began to sit with me on the sofa and the timber door began to be closed and latched. While telling me the story of Brunelleschi's dome for the duomo in Florence, he perched himself tentatively on the sofa's edge to show me the genius of the architect's design. As I marvelled at the double-skinned brickwork, I felt his hand on my leg, just above the knee. Though surprised, I was not afraid. In fact, I did not respond in any way at all. Until, that is, after the lights went out in the dormitory when I wished that it had been on my thigh. The next day it was, and as for the day after that . well, as they say, modesty prevents. Suffice to say that that day established a new pattern of visits to Luke's flat. One thing that you must understand is that I never felt abused, unhappy or guilty. He was always gentle and loving. He never coerced me and he never hurt me. In fact, in light of all the things that I later discovered about gay sex, it was remarkably tame. It was no more than what is, I think, referred to as a `hand job', and it wasn't even mutual. But I loved it . until."