From the moment he arrived on the terrace, it was obvious to Gore that the young man had put a lot of work into his appearance from the simple fact that he looked as if he’d just fallen out of bed. His dark hair was neatly cut, hanging low enough over his forehead that he was forced to brush it back time and again with his fingers. He wore an expensive white shirt, carefully crumpled, and a pair of navy shorts that reached just below the knee, revealing strong calves and pleasingly hirsute legs. A pair of espadrilles and the type of sunglasses that Marcello Mastroianni had worn in La Dolce Vita completed the look while a light breeze carried an appealing scent in Gore’s direction, a mixture of cheap soap, shampoo, bedsheets and boyish sweat.
Dash, poor defenceless Dash, was obviously besotted, placing metaphorical palm leaves before the boy’s feet as he wandered around the terrace, taking in the view. But where Jesus had approached Jerusalem weeping aloud for the suffering that awaited the city upon the destruction of the Second Temple, Gore lamented quietly, his heart grieving for the pain that this young man would inevitably cause his friend.
‘It’s stunning,’ said Maurice, lifting a hand to his forehead to keep the sun from his eyes as he looked across the water. ‘And these cliffs,’ he added, leaning over and peering forwards at the steep rock face. ‘To live surrounded by such beauty… I can scarcely imagine it.’
‘The Greeks,’ said Gore, walking over to join him and waving a hand in the direction of the stone, ‘believed that these cliffs housed the four winds maintained as familiars by Aeolus.’
‘Aeolus?’ asked Maurice, turning to his host, who was momentarily caught off guard by the boy’s blue eyes, which matched the colour of the water below. ‘Poseidon’s son?’
‘No, but that’s a common mistake,’ replied Gore, shaking his head. ‘Different Aeolus, perhaps not quite as well known. This Aeolus, my Aeolus, was the son of a mortal king, Hippotes. You’ve read The Odyssey?’
‘Of course.’
‘Recall, then, the scene where Odysseus and his crew arrive on the island of Aeolia having fled the Grotto of Polyphemus. Aeolus delivers them a west wind to speed their journey back to Ithaca but, as they approach their homeland at last, the foolish sailors open the ox-hide bag that Aeolus has given them containing all the winds of the world save the west wind. They are blown back then to their benefactor, who determines that the gods are opposed to their return. I have some nice editions of Homer in my library upstairs. I’ll show you if you like.’
‘I’d like that very much.’
‘Maurice is a compulsive reader,’ said Dash, coming over to join them, standing to the boy’s right, so close to him, in fact, that Gore realized he was making a declaration of ownership. He returned to the table, irritated that his friend was so possessive of a prize that, like the work of a mediocre painter, might look good on an initial viewing but would eventually reveal itself to be holding little of substance beneath the brushstrokes.
‘Well, what else is there to do?’ asked Gore. ‘Although I must admit there are times when I think that I should only read the work of dead writers. I’m not sure that the living have very much to say any more.’
‘I can’t agree with that,’ said Maurice defiantly, strolling away from Dash and taking a seat opposite Gore. ‘I find that it’s only bitter and disappointed old men who say such things. They want to believe that literature will come to an end when they’re six feet underground.’
‘Charming,’ said Gore, impressed by how the boy held his ground. So many others just gave in instantly, frightened of incurring his tongue. ‘You’ve only been here a few minutes and you’re already insulting me.’
‘I didn’t mean you, of course,’ said Maurice, flushing a little, and Gore realized that, yes, it was possible to discomfit the boy. It didn’t take very much work at all, in fact. ‘It’s just that, when you’re a young writer, it can be hard for one to be taken seriously.’
‘It’s the same for old writers,’ said Gore with a shrug. ‘They think I’ve already said everything I have to say because I’m too old. If only we could all remain middle-aged for ever, then they would carve our every sentence into stone.’
‘I don’t want to wait that long, Gore,’ said Maurice, who, Gore noted, had not been invited to use his given name but was apparently not planning to stand on ceremony.
‘Come with me, Mr Swift,’ said Gore, smiling, and then, perhaps aware that his own teeth did not equal the dazzling brilliance of his young companion’s, stopped. He pointed towards the staircase that led into the villa proper. ‘Let me show you my library. Dash, you stay down here and relax, I insist upon it. Your face is quite flushed and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be calling any ambulances to collect you later.’
Upstairs, Gore led the way through the large, airy rooms into the one he had designated for his books and Maurice entered, looking around with appreciable awe as he moved towards the stacks.
‘It’s like a church,’ he whispered.
‘A cathedral,’ said Gore, who took great pleasure in showing his collection to true aesthetes, and whatever else he might be, it seemed clear from the look on Maurice’s face that he was a believer, a young man who felt more comfortable around books than people.
‘I could live here,’ said Maurice.
‘I’d have to charge you rent.’
‘Oh, you never know,’ replied the boy, turning around and smiling at him. ‘Maybe you’d just take pity on me and make me your ward.’
‘We’re not living in a Victorian novel,’ said Gore. Was it any wonder that Dash was completely under his spell? He had an answer for everything and was willing to flirt to assert his dominance.
‘You know, the last person to set foot in here was Henry Kissinger,’ said Gore, recovering himself slightly as the boy turned away to scan the shelves, hands held behind his back as if he didn’t want to leave finger-marks on anything. His lips moved a little as he read the names of the authors and titles under his breath. ‘He visited just a few weeks ago and stayed the night. I found him in here at five o’clock in the morning, reading Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire. He’d still be here right now if his Secret Service detail hadn’t insisted that it was time to go.’
The boy turned around and smiled but remained silent, his expression asking, Are you trying to impress me with such shameless name-dropping? Gore could name-drop all night, after all, if he had to. He’d known everyone worth knowing and still did. Even now he was almost sixty-five, people came to La Rondinaia on pilgrimages. Politicians, actors, musicians, film-makers, novelists. The Jameses and the Forsters, he called them. The former being his American visitors, the latter being his English. They all romanticized Italy and moved in circles wealthy enough that they could ignore the squalor. They loved the Amalfi Coast for its privacy and it went without saying that they all adored, and feared, Gore.