Divertimento
by Oliver
Divertimento
"Hi!"
The young figure appears at the doorway. Slim, casually dressed. As usual, his blond hair catches my eye; slightly long, slightly unkempt, very blond, very clean hair. It frames his youthful face, defined cheekbones, narrow chin. His mouth is a perfect cupid-bow, the incisive fossa between nose and mouth still hairless. Sea-grey eyes gaze seriously at me.
"Good afternoon. How are you today?"
"Okay."
He closes the door behind him and walks into the room; leather jacket, baggy tee-shirt over another long-sleeved garment, faded jeans slung low on hips, pumps with rainbow-coloured laces. He sits down at his desk. I swallow, voice slightly hoarse.
"The others have called in sick. I'm afraid it's just you and me."
He shrugs, eyes gazing at me. Not rudely, almost speculatively. His bag of books before him on the table.
I'm not afraid the others are not here. I'm glad. I have the opportunity for nearly an hour, alone with him. But yet, I am afraid. I am afraid of the power this youth has over me. His stunning beauty leaves me breathless, my mouth dry. He is my solitude's constant companion, the subject of my secretive sessions behind drawn curtains, beneath my duvet.
He is just seventeen, I am fifty two.
Student and teacher.
Object of my desire.
Forbidden fruit.
***
I cough again, as nervous as a boy on his first date.
"So what would you like to do today?"
I leave it to him, his choice. I will go along with in anything he wants, will do anything he suggests. Anything except let him go home. Not that, please not that.
Slight hesitation - is that a faint colouration on his pale cheek? He opens his bag and produces a CD.
"I bought this today, on my way here. Could we listen to some of it?"
He hands me the CD, long slender fingers, surprisingly beautifully manicured hands. He's a guitar student, so the nails on his right hand are long, varnished and filed - almost feminine. I contrive to touch his hand as I take the CD - cool fingers against my warm, slightly damp palm.
I look into the grey eyes and then at the CD - a work for strings catches my eye.
"I heard it in a film and wanted to own it."
"What do you know about the man who wrote it?"
"Nothing."
Should I go there? Should I tell him about the private world behind this public piece?
"Well, I knew him," I say. The reaction is immediate.
"Cool!"
He is sitting quite still now, looking at me, almost through me. Now I feel my own cheek reddening. How much should I say? What is appropriate? To hide my confusion, I turn to place the CD in the player.
"I have a score of the music," I say as I find the track. "Would you like to see it?"
"Yeah." I feel his eyes on me. The CD is swallowed into the machine. I turn back to my beautiful vision.
Remote in hand, I shuffle through the music on my shelf. There's the score.
The years roll back, to that lazy, sunny morning after a night of love. The new piece on the piano, almost finished. Then the final bars written. Stillness, motes of dust hanging in the sunbeams coming through the window. A hug, kisses - and more, followed by the handwritten dedication: For Julian with all my love, Titus.
Dare I? I glance towards the door. It is closed - but not locked. Dare I?
Eyes following me, I move round the table and take a seat next to the boy. He moves his bag, reaching behind me to put it on the desk in the row behind. I smell the scent of his soap, his shampoo. A slight smile as he turns back.
I place the music on the table in front of us. My hands tremble slightly and I can't open the music. Another little smile as his hand moves to the corner of the page and opens the music. His eye falls on to the handwritten dedication. He can't miss it, can't fail to read it, can't possibly misunderstand its clear message. There is a moment where the whole world, the whole of creation, stands still, before the title-page is turned. He does not look at me, I see a rosy cheek, eyes covered by a fringe of blond hair.
The moment stretches out. I feel the remote in my hand. I am about to press play, when I hear a quiet voice.
"Aren't you going to tell me about him? About the piece? You said you knew him?"
"Yes," my voice a croak. I clear my throat.
I feel our closeness, conscious of his leg only centimetres from mine, our shoulders almost touching. The universe has shrunk to us - him and me.
"Titus was ... a very close friend."
"Was?"
"Yes, he died several years ago now."
Silence. I can feel the heat emanating from the young body next to me. The silence seems tangible.
***
And this boy had seen the film and wanted the music? Where had he seen it? It wasn't on general release. He must have seen a video.
How did he find the film? Not every video-store would have it. He would have either had to research it, or else found it through a friend. It was a so-called 'art film.' Made on a tight budget, privately sponsored, it's subject matter was controversial; the love of an older man for a teen boy.
It only just got past the censors, but it was a landmark film for its time, its subject and for its treatment. The actors were not professionals, but found by the director. I remembered the boy, in particular, was a very beautiful character, both physically and also spiritually. He was the director's nephew. The older man really was the boy's lover in real life, which made the ending even more heart-rending...
Although about sexual attraction, there were no graphic scenes, no hint of pointless pornography or voyeurism; the director had filmed and edited it with superb delicacy and sensitivity.
Titus, the director's brother, had written a beautiful score and this piece, not originally written for the film, however was so right for it, went so well with the final scene, that the director, Max, insisted on using it.
***
I was brought back to the present by a soft cough and a light touch on my arm. I flinched as if I had been electrocuted.
Grey eyes looked almost anxiously into my own.
"You okay?" Said with such concern, so gently. His hand still rested on my arm, his touch like a butterfly on my arm, hardly settling, ready to flutter away.
I nod. "Yes, I'm fine." I try to regain control. My chest is tight, my voice won't work, I am aware of the gentle touch, soft as silk, yet enough to root me to the spot. I feel my face is flushed.
Another gentle, almost sad smile. "So shall we listen?"
I feel almost confused. I look down at the remote, forgetting what it was I was supposed to do.
"Just press play," comes the slightly laughing voice, this time almost a whisper. I glance at the boy, uncertain of his tone. His grey eyes dance, his mouth turns up and the smile he gives me fills my heart with light. I feel like I have just witnessed a star exploding.
"Oh, yes." I press play with trembling fingers.
***
INT. Morning. Half-drawn curtains. Sunshine through the curtains, otherwise the room is very dim. Camera pans round the room. Silence, apart from the regular ticking of a large clock. Slow zoom in on to bedside table: we see a half-empty glass of water, a watch, a small pile of books, radio. Pan across an empty pillow to the head of the BOY asleep. Camera follows the contours of his face across to a shoulder and then slowly pans down the boy's body, half of which is covered by the sheet; chest, hip, thigh, knee, calf, ankle, foot - as it hangs over the side of the bed. We see his hand is also hanging over the side of the bed. Pan down to the floor. Follow a trail of discarded clothes across the floor. We see another foot, slippered. The MAN sits in a chair at the foot of the bed, cigarette in hand as he silently contemplates the sleeping figure. The man has a dressing-gown wrapped around him. We watch him as he smokes his cigarette and watches the sleeping boy. Close-up of face, unshaved, eyes hardly blinking, smoke wreathes around his head. He continues to stare at the sleeping figure. We observe him smoke the whole cigarette, in silence. He finishes his cigarette. The camera follows his hand as he slowly and carefully stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on his lap. The man sighs, moves the ashtray to the floor, puts it down. We see a gun on the floor and the man's hand as he picks it up. The camera stays focused on the dead cigarette-butt in the ashtray. Silence, clock ticking. Suddenly, a single shot rings out. CUT TO BLACK.
TITLES.
THE END.
***
I listen to Titus' music, seeing the film again in my mind's eye. I am acutely aware of the boy's body close to mine. We are sitting very close, touching shoulders, arms, hips, thighs. He turns the pages of the music as we listen.
We didn't know it then, but the film foretold the future, in a way. Within a year of the film being completed, the man and the boy were both dead.
Titus was devastated. He became a recluse, gave up composing and died after an overdose. Yet it was this music for which he is chiefly remembered although most people don't know it was used in the film.
But this boy does.
I turn my head slightly to try and see his face. He is following the music intently, long fingers gently playing with the page prior to turning.
The grave, subdued yet impassioned music moves on in a stately slow march, the more powerful for its understatement.
Images from my youth, my early adulthood, my life until today, tumble through my brain.
The music fades. There is silence in our universe again.
A long drawn-out sigh. I feel my shoulders relax. The boy is so close. I need only turn my head and my face would be buried in his long blond hair. I feel our two warm bodies touching.
"You've seen the film?" The boy turns to me. I am lost in grey eyes.
"Not recently," I manage to say.
"I'd like to see it again. Would you like to watch it?"
I suddenly lose the power of speech. I nod, lost in those eyes, my nostrils filled with his scent.
"Maybe I can come over and we can watch it at your place?"
His voice hoarse, he swallows. He's nervous!
"This evening?"
Silence. I feel his body tremble slightly, or is it me?
"Okay."
"Look forward to it Harry," I use his first name, relishing it on my tongue.
"Me too."
Silence.
Grey eyes - a smile.
"See you this evening then."
Somehow or other, we manouevre. Stand. I give him his CD back, his fingers now linger on my hand. I watch the youth as he moves to the door, where he turns, smiles.
"Later, Julian!"
I raise my hand to him.
"Later, Harry!"
He's gone.
My life has just begun again.
I move over to where we sat, feel the chair - still warm.
He's left a slip of paper on the table. I unfold it.
I hope you don't own a gun, Julian! xxx H.
