‘You live very differently to this,’ said the boy, watching Bart with an amused expression. ‘You feel disgust, I can see this.’
Bart tried to smile. ‘You’re a perceptive chap.’
‘Artists, by their very nature, are perceptive.’ He smiled ironically, as if this observation was a well-known cliché (it was) and uncorked a bottle of wine, pouring two glasses. He handed one to Bart. ‘I love my home. It is mine to do what I like with. I’m not ashamed. You should be ashamed.’
Bart laughed. ‘Me, ashamed? You really don’t know me. Let’s not talk of shame. It’s the most wasteful emotion, don’t you find?’
The boy gave Bart a look that seemed to him deliberately loaded. ‘I do.’ He drank his wine, keeping eye contact. ‘You are very trusting.’
‘I most certainly am not. That is the very opposite of what I am.’
The boy shook his head. ‘You come into my room. Perhaps there are other men here, waiting for me to bring you in. Terrible men, criminals, vagrants, and they are waiting for you, like this’ – he rubbed his hands together lasciviously – ‘Non? I showed you my money. It was a roll of money, yes? Perhaps it was a roll of scrap paper with notes on the outside.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’
The boy smiled again. ‘Lucky for you, nor did I.’
‘How did you make that money?’ Bart asked.
‘Let us not talk of money,’ said the boy, in a gloriously snobby English accent, his nose tilted in the air. ‘It is worse than shame, don’t you find?’
‘Good for you,’ said Bart, laughing.
The boy put his glass of wine on the floor and took off his middy blouse. He pulled off his striped undershirt, lifting it over his head so that his stomach tightened, his ribs shimmered and his skinny biceps flexed. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. His armpits sprouted the thickest, softest-looking hair, and as the boy caught the shirt collar on his chin and struggled to get free of the article, Bart stared hungrily at that hair.
Finally he was free of the shirt. Grinning bashfully (oh, those dimples) he tossed it on the chair and picked up his wine. He took Bart’s hand and brought it to his crotch. Bart felt the soft bulge – a good handful – and squeezed it until it hardened, gazing at the boy’s off-white teeth.
‘You’re very assuming,’ Bart said.
‘But I am correct in assuming.’ His lips apart, a string of pearl-white saliva between upper right fang and lower right fang.
Bart downed his drink and wrapped his arms around the boy’s neck, the empty glass dribbling out its last drops onto his back.
His name was Étienne, or so he said. Bart thought this a beautiful name, the ‘t’ like a tiny melting dagger of ice in a pool of clear water. They lay intertwined, hot and sticky, sometimes kissing, other times talking. Étienne read from a book of poetry (Rimbaud) in French and Bart listened with closed eyes, his hand on Étienne’s chest, feeling the vibration as he spoke. He hated poetry. But coming from Étienne (Eh-tee-enn), it was tolerable. They smoked cigarette after cigarette, accidentally tapping the ash onto each other’s bodies and then wiping it off with hushed apologies. They fell asleep, and though they moved around the bed in the stuffy night, they remained together, one arm draped over a shoulder, one leg thrust between the thighs of the other, a hand loosely cupping an ear.
Bart woke up first, and, staring at Étienne’s sleep-crusted eyes and wine-purpled lips, he felt a capsule of despair. His saliva tasted like cheese and a sharp stinging pain streaked up his rectum. Étienne’s genitals were plastered clammily to his thigh and a great stink of garlic sweat and stale farts rose out from their joined bodies.
But then Étienne opened his eyes and smiled.
They each washed over a bidet, using a bar of dry, shrivelled soap that had to be rubbed for ages to produce any lather, and Étienne boiled up some water for coffee over a gas camping stove. He cleared all the junk off his tiny table and they sat and drank their coffee and tore chunks of olive-dotted bread, eating it with spicy sausage and tiny, sweet tomatoes. It was simple but delicious and both ate like hogs, burping throughout. Downstairs someone was playing the piano freely and the notes tinkled out and rose through the ceiling. Bart’s spine tingled.
‘You like it here,’ said Étienne. An observation more than a question – he was often doing this.
‘Well, I won’t pretend I’m enamoured by your living conditions, but it does have a certain quality that I enjoy.’
Étienne scattered tobacco into a paper, rolled it up, burped and stuffed it in the side of his mouth. ‘You are a rich boy and this is a quaint novelty.’
‘I wouldn’t call it quaint.’ Bart pointed at the last slice of meat. ‘Are you having that?’
Étienne shook his head and lit his cigarette with a match. ‘Do you have servants at home?’
Bart nodded, chewing. ‘But not as many as we used to have. Things changed after the war.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘I know. It’s heartbreaking.’
‘How many servants?’
‘Six.’ Bart drained his coffee and lit his own cigarette. ‘That’s not that many, considering,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s a big house. Not quite a country mansion or anything, but fairly big, and with a decent plot of land. When my father was alive we had a staff of twelve.’
‘Are you dressed by staff?’
‘Lord no. I dress myself. Wash myself…’ He tried to think of something else he did for himself. No. That was about it. He’d shined his own shoes once – he’d been in a terrible rush and couldn’t find the footman. ‘I’d like to drive my own car one day. Once Mother’s had the Rolls re-upholstered.’
‘You are so brave. How many people live in your house?’
‘Well, just my mother. During term time. But she entertains most evenings and always has guests staying over.’
‘Are you a kind taskmaster?’
‘No. I’m a mean bastard.’ He rubbed his leg against Étienne’s under the table. ‘I could be a kind master to you, though.’
Étienne moved his leg away. ‘Please, don’t make these jokes.’
‘Does my way of life offend you?’
‘Mais oui! But I like to make love with you, so for now I am not thinking of it. In the same way that you are not thinking about all this.’ He waved his hand to signify the room. ‘It is a compromis… uh, what is it in English? Compromise? A temporary compromise. Oui? Born of cock-love and foolish romantic notions. That is what this is.’
Bart nodded, eyeing Étienne analytically through the thick smoke. ‘We’re very honest with each other. Do you know how rare that is?’
‘It is life for me. Do you want more coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Have you fucked other boys?’
‘Not like this. I’m in public school. You must have heard about English public schools. I’ve never kissed anyone. Just some wrist action under the covers at lights-out. You?’