May We Borrow Your Son?
by N Fourbois
It had to be different this year. I had survived Christmas and New Year simply by pretending they no longer existed. Thank goodness Christmas and Boxing Day only lasted two days and not four as they can do when they fall on or round a weekend. Not that I had been neglected. I had received invitations from my partner's sister and my brother and their families, but I went into hiding in a country hotel. Now the 'festive' season was over I could do what my partner and I had always done for years - winter out for a few weeks in Tenerife. But it had to be different this year. We had rented the same apartment for long enough years to see Los Cristianos grow up from a small fishing village an hour's stroll along the sand from Playa de las Americas into a thriving tourist town and into a conurbation with Americas. I had found Villa Mandi, a complex of hotel and apartments built on the hill overlooking Los Cristianos. It did what I wanted and so long as I had my laptop and an inexhaustible supply of reading I would survive until I returned home at the beginning of March. Yes, it had to be different because I had to lay the ghost of my memories of the good times Will and I spent together over the years in Tenerife. He was gone now and my life had to go on. I was not seeking a new partner. I was still at the stage where nobody could have replaced him. Fortunately he didn't suffer. He'd been given a fortnight to live after being unexpectedly diagnosed with cancer and died within eight days. I often wonder if that had been psychological and whether he would have survived longer without the death sentence. At least we'd been able to say our farewells and our friends gave us all the support we needed, and more, but despite that the world, my world, had become a lonelier place. Will's final wish for me was to go out and live, live not only for myself, but to live for him, do the things his untimely death had denied him, and I had every intention of doing so, but I needed to w ork at it. Now that I'd wound up Will's estate I could relax. Apart from a few small bequests it had come to me. A tidy part of it had been in a bank here in Tenerife and so escaped the UK taxman. I carried on working, though I had no need to.
Much of the week I could sit on my balcony overlooking the swimming pool, tap away on my computer keyboard and still get paid for it. If I wanted a change I would climb into a hire car and motor off to some part of the island, or visit a sympathetic bar or restaurant off the beaten track, or look up the odd acquaintances we had made on the island. My main interest, however, was observing the clientele in the pool area. Most were passing ships. You saw them for a week and they were gone, but there were some points of interest among them and among those who like me were on a longer sojourn.
On the day of my arrival the Sirocco was blowing. It was blowing the next day which I spent either dozing or musing on a sunbed by the pool. Its debilitating effect did nothing to help me recover from the journey to the airport, the four hour delay before take off and the flight itself. The boundary between musing and dreaming was blurred and as part of my continued grieving I thought back to my schooldays and afterwards university days as I got to know Will.
It started I suppose in the summer holidays between my day prep school and my boarding school. My brother was already there, two years my senior. He did, however, perform a conscientious and dare I say fraternally loving job in preparing me for what lay ahead. In many ways the transition from prep to public school at an age of thirteen plus is a more natural transition than the one at eleven plus in the state system, at least in our days. Puberty comes earlier now. Physically and perhaps emotionally that is the time you leave your boyhood behind, a form of bar mitzvah for gentiles, and with the aid of pubescence join your new establishment as a young man. The régime of the prep school with its sports and communal showers had got us used to seeing our fellows' bodies and their seeing ours. Perhaps that had been the start of my downfall. I didn't just see them, I became interested in them, I observed them. I was not alone as we played games in the showers and changing rooms, flicking towels at one another, grabbing other boys' bits and having your grabbed, seeing who had hair and who didn't. We knew all about sex - at least we thought we did - and however good our theoretical knowledge was, our practical experience was almost nil.
During those transitional summer holidays my brother took it upon himself to fill that gap in practical knowledge. One night when the moon was full and our parents were safely out to dinner with friends… In those days it was acceptable and safe to leave your children home alone, to expect them to act responsibly and on trust, and let's face it, there was hell to pay in the morning if you broke that trust. One night when the moon was full and our parents were safely out to dinner with friends he showed me how to masturbate, first by doing it to himself. That alone was enough to get me aroused and he followed through by gently jerking me off. Even when he broke back my foreskin the pain was momentary and eased by his explanation that now I could retract it fully I was officially a man. He aroused a curiosity within me that has never been satisfied. Looking back it was that day in my life when I officially became gay. My experiences at prep school were just the preamble.
My brother was not gay, but he was a businessman, and the time and attention he spent on me that summer formed a business investment. He still is not gay with a happy and thriving family and he has proved himself to be very successful as a businessman. I was his investment and it had the spin off that at my new school he watched out for me and spared me the bullying less fortunate mortals had to endure in their junior years. While still at home he repeatedly advised me to join the House photography club. At the time I could never fathom out why. Okay, I had a camera and I took snaps from time to time, particularly when we were on holiday. But that was the extent of my interest in photography. Such was the trust I held my brother in that within the first week of arriving at my new school I was a fully paid up member of the House photography club, as indeed he was.
It was some weeks into my first term that exeat weekend came along. For those who lived within reasonable distance or had guardians near the school it was a weekend out. However, that definition did not fit my brother or me and so we had to languish in the boarding house for the weekend without our usual companions. That was when I discovered why I was a member of the House photography club. As such I was permitted to sign out the key for and use the club's developing and printing facilities set up in the basement. The lab had sinks and hot and cold running water, but the main point was that once the door was locked from within and the red light illuminated outside no one had entry for fear of overexposing a member's film or enlargements that were being processed. And it was certainly exposure, overexposure and enlargements that I learnt about in there. It was Sunday afternoon and my brother had set up a liaison with a boy from his own year called Will. He was going to initiate me. In photography I had assumed even though I knew there were various initiations of a sexual nature which to that point I had escaped on the strength of having an elder and protective brother. I'd seen Will about the House. In such a close community you could not avoid anybody for long. But it was at that moment of going into the photo lab that I fell in love with this hunk of masculinity that had just returned from the apparatus room in the gym still wearing shorts and singlet and smelling of fresh manly sweat. Because I fell in love I offered him no resistance when he took down my trousers and with full explanation and preparation with vaseline from his kitbag skilfully stole my cherry. Because of my brother's preparation I found it an uplifting experience, the complete opposite of Stephen Fry's description in Moab is my Washpot of the time he was more brutally deflowered at school in Uppingham by a predator who never spoke to him again all the time they were at the school. The pain of my experience lasted a few seconds until Will provided me with the greatest physical pleasure I had experienced up to that point in my life. I always remember his most considerate action when I farted afterwards and amid giggles his boy juice came spurting out of my butt. He was quick to clean me up with a paper towel.
It was later at supper that night that my brother's rôle in the transaction became clearer when he slipped me a crisp ten shilling note, so much nicer than the seven sided cupronickel 50p coin which replaced it, and so much more valuable. I realised of course that my brother had also profited by ten shillings from our afternoon's activity, but as I said he was a born businessman. However, it was the last time that sexual contact between Will and me ever exacted a fee and while at school we became firm friends. Yes, I was known as Will's bumboy, that was inevitable, but the important thing to me was that no other boy in the school was ever referred to as Will's bumboy. After he left the sixth form we parted as I thought for good. I'd had the privilege of an extra term's friendship as he stayed on for Cambridge entrance. Life went on and possibly Will survived as a youthful memory until it was my turn to go up to university. Cambridge was the natural choice. It would suit my disposition better than Oxford, my Housemaster advised, and that proved correct. I was astute enough by then to realise he was referring to my homosexuality and Cambridge had gained a certain reputation as the alma mater of Philby, Burgess and Maclane and their associates. It was pure, but happy coincidence that I arrived in October at Will's college. He was in his final year. We quickly rebuilt our friendship and became lovers. He spent two years on research while I graduated. We lived together as partners until civil unions became the law when we committed ourselves. Now I had lost him again, but permanently this time. I opened my eyes and dived into the pool to cool down. I hoped I wouldn't be suffering that evening from overexposure to the sun.
Not that my relationship with Will at school was monogamous. That didn't happen until Cambridge. That Sunday afternoon in the developing room Will had unleashed within me a storm of adolescent hormones which could only be stilled by the tricks he and my brother had taught me. As I settled in, my confidence grew, my reputation spread and I found myself in demand. To my brother's disgust I never turned my sexual career into financial gain, but the compensation was that it put me in the powerful personal position of literally as well as metaphorically holding senior boys by the balls.
The following day the Sirocco had died down and I was content to sit on my balcony and work. Although open from nine the swimming pool below was rarely used before ten when the January sun had dispersed the vestiges of cloud and begun to send down its warmth. However, I was to be distracted from my laptop on the arrival of a father, mother and their three sons. The boys although dressed in board shorts were nevertheless good-looking in their own right. The oldest I would estimate to be a mature fifteen, possible sixteen, the middle one thirteen and the youngest twelve. At first I was taken by their appearance. The eldest obviously took after his mother with dark hair and, as I got to know them, a quiet studious nature. He was content to spend much of the day with his nose in a book, sunning himself and as an concession to his younger brothers, occasionally diving into the pool to cool down, dry off and apply more sun lotion. The younger two could, apart from a couple of inches in height, almost be taken as twins. They had fair hair and could be inaccurately described as hyperactive. They were here, there and everywhere with or without ball, but never apart. The family pecking order must have been strongly established for during their whole stay I only noticed the oldest boy being hassled by his younger brothers once and although he joined in with the spirit of the ragging by diving into the pool and swimming with them and splashing them, the pecking order was quickly restored as he returned to his book.
Even on that first day I was unsettled by them. I listened out, but could only establish that they were not speaking English. I finally conceded that my laptop was not going to get anything like full attention that morning. As the poolside area had filled up I spotted a free sunbed between the family and the next sun worshipper, so I changed into my speedos. Will and I had always taken pride in shunning bathing fashion by wearing speedos. I would have had him no other way for he always looked superb. I noticed too that the boys' father was also wearing speedos while his wife was in a bikini. I appeared at he water's edge, said good morning in English and enquired whether the sunbed was free. I got an immediate and positive reply in English detecting the hint of a Scandinavian accent. It didn't surprise me as there was a dearth of English people in the hotel that week. It seemed to given over to Finns, Swedes and Danes.
After applying the sunscreen I settled down with my book, but from behind my shades I was content to indulge in some boywatching. My neighbouring family apart there was a lack of attractive youth, but the antics of their three were enough to keep my mind occupied. The brothers interested me and for once the main interest was not a sexual one. It was the dynamics between them. The oldest was not what I would immediately consider to be an attractive boy; he was certainly neither ugly, nor displeasing, nor plagued with adolescent zits, but he was plain. However, the compensation for that was a certain natural nobility, manifested in his calmness, his detachedness. The younger two were a bundle of fun in themselves, lively, always up to something. Although similar in appearance the younger one had the edge. He was outstandingly pretty, a prettiness destined to be turned into adolescent beauty within the next year or so. He would always be desired, whether socially or sexually. It immediately struck me because of the age difference that he might have been an 'accident', that his conception had belied the old wives' tale that lactating women cannot conceive. The mother said something to her brood, the only word of which I understood was 'coffee'. The eldest declined. He wanted get on with his book. So the four went off leaving him in charge of their belongings. As he had laid his book aside to answer his mother I glimpsed from the cover that it was written in Swedish.
My curiosity would allow me to maintain my silence no longer. I took off my sunglasses so as to remove any vestige of anonymity.
"How are you enjoying your holiday?" He put his book down and turned towards me.
"Fine," he said in a mellifluous voice that immediately melted me. "Where I come from we don't see a lot of the sun in winter. We always go somewhere in the winter for a sunbreak." His English was perfect and only betrayed by the sing song intonation in his words. "Are you here on holiday too?"
"A working break for a couple of months. I'm a writer." He became interested.
"What kind of writer?" I told him.
"In fact anything that will bring in an income."
"I want to write one day - on scientific topics, but first I must study hard. We saw you on balcony working at your computer." I realised I hadn't introduced myself and told him my name.
"I'm Björn," he replied. "My parents are Doctor and Mrs Hansen and my brothers are Gunnar who is thirteen and Sven who is twelve." I mentally congratulated myself on guessing their ages correctly. At that moment the family arrived back from their coffee break. "I will introduce them to you." He said something to them in Swedish and Mrs Hansen came back straightaway with
"We must all speak English in front of our neighbour, and that includes you two, Gunnar and Sven." I got up and shook hands with Dr and Mrs Hansen, then with Gunnar and Sven. It was then that I noticed what pretty eyes Sven had, sparkling blue eyes that smiled and looked interested in life, interested in me, nothing like my previous encounters with Swedish people. "And is your wife with you?"
"I have no wife," I replied. "I had a partner who died some months ago."
"Was she unwell?" I was used to such interrogation, particularly from women, and it was no problem for me to discuss my domestic arrangements.
"He…" I answered. "He died of cancer." If anyone can accept my sexuality, Swedes can, I thought.
"I'm sorry," said Mrs Hansen. She had hit a nerve.
"Sorry, that I'm homosexual?"
"No, sorry that you lost a loved one. We are not sorry about being homosexual. We accept, don't we, Björn?" she said as she squeezed his hand and a smile exchanged between mother and son revealed a strong bond, a bond forged by the little inconveniences of life.
"Am I to assume that you too are…"
"Yes, I am gay. I prefer to say gay than homosexual. It's such an official word." We settled down again; the readers read, the younger boys splashed in and out of the water playing with a football. They talked about themselves, their family, their home in Sweden. Dr Hansen was not a medical doctor. He was a manager in an engineering firm. They made polite enquiries about me. At one o'clock they made their excuses and went back to their apartment for lunch leaving their towels draped over the sunbeds. Mrs Hansen hung back to have a private word.
"I should be so grateful if you have the opportunity to talk to Björn. Of the the three he is the sensitive one and coming out is not easy even in our enlightened Swedish society." I replied that I would wait for him to approach me and that I would help and advise him in any way I could.
I returned to my apartment and prepared a snack from bread rolls, cheese and cold meat. After eating I sat on the balcony at my laptop. I had some copy to file in London by six o'clock. At two I noticed the Hansen family return for further sun worship. Björn looked up at my balcony and waved. I smiled and waved back before concentrating on the matter in hand. At dinner that evening I sat a few tables away from where the Hansen family was already seated. They formed an animated group, and since I had no other companions I spent the time studying the way they interacted. As they got up to leave Sven was sent across to my table with a white envelope and handed it to me. He loved to try out his English which was as faultless as that of the rest of the family. I thanked him and he formally wished me good night. I waited until returning to my apartment before reading its contents. It was an invitation to join them for dinner the following evening and have coffee and drinks afterwards in their apartment. I scribbled a reply and left it at reception for delivery. The next morning I missed the family by the pool. I was forced to concentrate on my work that day with just the comfort of knowing that my labours would be fully rewarded in the evening.
At the appointed hour I was sitting on a sofa in the lounge by reception. As the Hansen family descended the broad stairway it looked as if they had already arranged themselves aesthetically for a group photograph with the parents flanking the children and with Björn forming the centrepiece. While my subconscious acknowledged the presence of five it was only Björn that I saw. The arrangement had succeeded. His longer hair had been suitably shampooed, brushed and styled. It shone and framed his serious, but beautiful face. He wore a pair of dark grey trousers which fitted in all the right places. But it was his shirt which particularly drew my attention. It was what I think Americans refer to as a dress shirt, a formal shirt with open collar and long sleeves. It was made of pale green toile, translucent to the extent that his dark brown nipples clearly showed through looking far sexier than they did on his bare torso at the poolside. I was enchanted, but it was Dr Hansen's voice which brought me back to the reality demanded by the courtesy of greeting the Hansens.
I was escorted to the dining room by the family. The staff had obviously been alerted for we were conducted to a table for six which had a reserved sign on it. I was offered a seat opposite Björn and beside Sven. Dr and Mrs Hansen took theirs at opposite ends of the table. The conversation was lively and inclusive. The family had visited Loro Parque, a zoo which had originally opened with a collection of parrots and expanded into a zoo with performing animal attractions. The children had obviously enjoyed themselves and were ready to tell me of their adventures. The time passed quickly lubricated not only by the wine, but also by the charm that exuded from every member of the family. Sven would touch my arm as he spoke to me. For the younger ones the evening was obviously a painless, extended English lesson for which I was being handsomely rewarded. Although quiet Björn made his points whenever he wanted and was determined to entertain me in a different way. Whether his exploitation of body language was deliberate or subconscious was difficult to determine, but he did not permit himself to lose my attention for very long.
When the meal came to a close I followed the Hansens back to their apartment which was at the far end of the complex from mine. A table had been previously arranged on the veranda and it only took Mrs Hansen a few minutes to prepare coffee while Dr Hansen attended to providing the brandy. The air was balmy. The boys had their own apartment, but they were sufficiently polite or interested to remain with the adults. At eleven o'clock I judged it the correct time to break up the party.
"Björn," said Mrs Hansen, "would you accompany Nick back to his flat?" I wondered what footpads there were out there to waylay me.
"May I go too?" piped up Sven, his voice obviously suffering the change.
"I think it wiser if you go to bed. It's already past your bedtime and you have had a long and tiring day." Sven acquiesced and along with Gunnar shook my hand and wished me good night. Björn said something to them in Swedish which went over my head, probably about not locking him out before they went to sleep. I wished Dr and Mrs Hansen goodnight with profuse thanks for an entertaining evening.
As I began the walk with Björn back to my rooms, I realised that the alcohol had put a spring into my step. It was a personal rule never to drink alcohol when I was by myself and that had been frequently and strictly enforced since Will's passing. If it hadn't been the alcohol it could have been the air that was intoxicating me. I could swear that Björn was taking the scenic route as he escorted me. One thing that was certain was that his translucent toile shirt was now unbuttoned to the navel exposing an innie; and furthermore I had not noticed in the restaurant the little black male handbag that Continentals are so fond of carrying on formal occasions. We reached the door of my apartment which I opened. I was going to say good night, but as we were about to shake hands Björn pulled me closer and kissed me on the cheek. It was not just the alcohol that took over, but the combined forces of his sweet breath and the wholesome natural perfume of his body. Any resistance I might have mustered drained away from me.
"Björn, you'd better come in." The door closed I continued "This didn't happen. You're only fifteen."
"In Sweden we are allowed to give consent at fifteen."
"But we're not in Sweden. I could end up in prison."
"No. In Spain the age of consent is thirteen." Intoxicated as I was, I was in no position to argue. The loss of Will had meant months of celibacy and what my head had permitted my loins were now encouraging. Björn kissed me again on the cheek, but I was the one who turned my head to receive a full blooded kiss on the lips. How I had missed the power of Will's body over all these months. Now this young man was offering himself to me and the culmination of emotion from those months was preventing me from saying no. I took him to the bedroom and pulled him down onto the bed. After that I no longer knew who was leading. I remember saying
"You don't want to spoil those lovely clothes," and after a further kiss I released the waistband of his trousers, freed his toile shirt, removed his shoes and socks and slipped the trousers over his bare feet. I can't remember what happened after that. I do remember waking with Björn still in my arms.
I next woke at sunrise which is about eight o'clock at that time of year. He had slipped away and left me to sleep. I tried to piece together what had happened last night. If it had been enjoyable, I couldn't remember exactly what it was. I was brutally reminded when I climbed out of bed and stepped on something cold, clammy and squishy. I looked down and my bare foot had landed on a used and knotted condom. I didn't even know whose seed it contained, but I now quickly understood why Björn had been carrying a gentleman's handbag. Whatever had happened it had been premeditated and executed not only with the combined benefits of Swedish efficiency and Swedish sex education, but also with the connivance of the parents. As I regained my sang froid I wondered whether Will would have approved or whether I had despoiled his memory. Since we'd met up again at Cambridge we had both remained monogamous. There had never been any temptation for my part and I'm sure Will would have discussed it, had there been any on his side. 'Until death us do part' had been the contract and Will understood that as well as I did. I salvaged my conscience by deciding he would have approved. I climbed into the shower and still had no clue as whether I had been shagged or I had buggered Björn. No trace of lube, no trace of pain, just the inevitable stains on the bed sheets and the cold contents of a rubber which did not warrant the time, trouble or expense of a DNA test. When I got down to breakfast there was no sign of the Hansens. They were obviously recovering from the several tolls of the previous day.
I felt remarkably good after breakfast, but then sex with Will always had that effect on me in our more mature years. We were neither top nor bottom, but versatile, both responding with a tacit understanding to each other's needs at the time. Whatever happened last night, I was the one that was seduced. Dare I ask Björn or would that be the ultimate insult to a lover? I was destined to remain in ignorance. My mind strayed towards Visconti's film of Death in Venice. I had read Mann's novel in translation as an afterthought. The Sirocco had taken its toll on von Aschenbach. I wanted to deny any further parallels. Von Aschenbach had lurked in the background, he has never spoken to Tadzio, ironically a Swedish actor in the film, let alone touch him. This forbidden love was new to von Aschenbach at the end of an intellectually fulfilled but exhausting life. I was still fulfilling mine, while my sexual and emotional union with Will - we refused to call it marriage - had been all we ever wanted. I should have been disgusted with myself… a fifteen year old boy… but I wasn't. My only guilt stemmed from not knowing what had happened, while I prayed that any social relationship between him and me, between me and the Hansen family, should not have been destroyed in what is fashionably termed a moment of madness.
I returned to my apartment with a spring in my step. My first priority was to write a bread and butter note to Mrs Hansen. I took it to reception and asked for it to be delivered with a bouquet of flowers to their apartment. It would be done by noon, I was assured. If this had been sixties Spain I would have had my doubts, but Tenerife had learnt the hard way that if it wanted European visitors it had to offer European standards. I finally settled down to work. Fortunately I had no deadlines today. At ten o'clock I happened to peer over the balcony. Led by Dr Hansen the family of five appeared at the side of the swimming pool set to occupy the sunbeds until four. Björn looked up at my balcony, smiled and waved. He said something in Swedish and this was immediately followed by enthusiastic greetings from the other four, the most animated from Sven. I wondered whether on their return to their native land they immediately cast off any vestige of jollity at immigration and resumed their life as dour Swedish conformists. I would go and speak to them in good time, but I wanted the note to be delivered first. I got on with my typing and tried to pretend there was nothing of interest going on below my balcony, but there was - three exquisite boys, one of whom I had enjoyed carnal union with, one who on his own might have attracted my interest and one who in his way was as seductive as his elder brother. At least the board shorts had ceased to aggravate me as I now knew what treasure trove lay beneath them, but I could only hazard a guess at the mystery guarded by the youngest's.
I got on with my work, successfully considering the potential distraction in the pool area. Suddenly I heard a commotion from below and when I looked it was nothing more than two new arrivals looking for their apartment, Londoners from their accents. They were approaching middle age, dressed in shorts and bright Hawaiian shirts, the taller one wearing a Dutch seaman's cap, the younger one a scarlet neckerchief. I scanned the pool area. The Hansens must have gone for their coffee. A shudder went through me for one didn't need to be gifted with gaydar to recognise immediately that they were family, the types which Will and I with our less flamboyant lifestyle had always tried to avoid.
"Ooh, that palone at security. Wouldn't let me take my Lynx through. If she can make a bomb out of that, she's a better omi than I, gungadin."
"Mmm, that's not difficult, ducky."
"You bitch. You won't be saying that tonight when you're lying there tonight in your haircurlers begging me. Now where is this room?"
To my horror I noticed it was above mine. I felt like packing up my suitcase, taking my laptop str8 to the airport and paying whatever for a flight home. Fortunately the walls and floor proved thick enough to muffle their excitement. I continued to work and felt at ease when the Hansens returned from their coffee. They looked up and waved. Then I saw Mrs Hansen making her way up to my apartment. I anticipated her arrival by opening the door. We greeted and I invited her in.
"Nick, I don't know how to thank you for such a beautiful bouquet."… 'By confiscating your sons' board shorts' was my immediate thought, but I suppressed it. …"It was so unnecessary. I want to apologise for burdening you with Björn. He did so want to talk to you man to man so to speak." I was taken aback when I realised that my accusation of connivance had been wrong. He had certainly been desperate for some male bonding, but there had been very little talk. I wonder if her reaction would have been so friendly if she had realised the fulfilled intention of her eldest. I didn't feel so used.
"He behaved impeccably," I replied rather over egging the custard. "May I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?"
"No, thank you. We have just had our… what do you call it?… elevenses, but if I may trouble you for a little longer of your time. You may be able to help."
"I'll try." Anything to extend my contact with this charming family.
"Of the three Björn is the sensitive one. I also have to confess that he is my favourite. For a mother the first born usually is. He is the intellectual and needs to talk to authors like you."
"I'm more a hack journalist than an author."
"Oh no, Nick. You undervalue yourself. I googled your name and your list of publications is impressive."
"You are flattering me."
"Now Gunnar is quite the opposite - typical second child of the same sex. He's the rebel." I raised an eyebrow. "I know what you're thinking. How can a Swede be a rebel? Am I right?" I confessed. "If it's round and you can kick or throw it, he's interested. Sven is different again. He was a true love child, if you know what I mean, a product of those long cold Scandinavian nights. But we do all love him dearly and wouldn't be without him. My husband couldn't provide me with a daughter." I noted an air of wistfulness in that last statement. "We think that Sven might be going the same way as Björn."
"You mean he might be gay?
"That's what I mean, but we don't know yet for certain."
"They say your sex education is very good in Sweden."
"We are very open about sexual matters. It's been like that since 1934. We can discuss these things with our children, as I did with my parents."
"I'm impressed by the way all your family speak English."
"Every educated person in Sweden speaks English. We start at a very early age and know that a professional can't get on without it. So we encourage the children. I have a confession to make. That was another reason for asking you to dinner last night."
"The children certainly rose to the challenge."
"It was no difficulty for Björn. Gunnar and Sven had to work at it."
"And how long are you staying here?"
"Another week after this. Then back home for school and work. Nick, I'm stopping you from working."
"Not at all. It's marvellous talking to you. We must get together again before you return."
Mrs Hansen got up and I showed her to the door. When I got back to my laptop I was in contemplative mode. How desperate was Björn last night? What happened? And was I good?
I dined alone that evening, at least in theory since I had the table to myself, but not the tranquility that should go with it for I was torn from my own thoughts by the raucous and outrageous single side of a conversation. For one moment it was as if one partaker of the conversation had forgotten that his mobile was a telephone and believed it to be a megaphone. I had no need to look up and see who it was.
"…I'm just not going back there, ducky. Tell me who in their right senses wants their drawing room decorated in green with mauve velveteen curtains. I told her and even when I added a thousand pounds onto the estimate she still wanted me to perpetrate this crime de goût." His partner was much quieter and I couldn't hear his side of the conversation, a blessing in one sense, a mild annoyance in another. The pair were shown by the young waiter to a table, too near both to me and to the Hansen family for my liking and comfort. The waiter did not escape having his bottom goosed by the extrovert one. "Play your cards right, ducky, and there'll be a nice fat tip coming up your way at the end of the week," squealed the noisy one. The waiter appeared unmoved. 'Was that acquiescence or good training?' I asked myself. Time alone would tell, except that their table was then served by the oldest waitress for the rest of the evening. I decided to risk indigestion and hurried my meal. Later that night my sleep was disturbed by the noise of a slammed car door coming from the street and a loud conversation in English making its way the stairwell up to the apartment above mine.
"You were a complete and utter bitch. You could have stopped him."
"Why should I stop your adventures? Any road up, you're sleeping on the sofa bed tonight," came the truculent reply. The apartment door slammed and the voices became muffled. I quickly returned to my slumbers without looking at my watch.
Despite an early night I was late down to breakfast the next morning. Free of journalistic work I wanted to continue with the novel I was writing and I was still in a suitably contemplative frame of mind and happy to sit alone in an almost empty dining room. Unusually I decided to treat myself to the full cooked to compensate for my early departure from dinner the previous evening and so that a midday break would be less urgent and less disruptive. Suddenly I heard those voices, just as loud, and by the tone last night's tiff had already been forgiven and forgotten. I tried to make myself invisible, anticipating that the empty dining room would be little incentive for them to breakfast alone. I was unfortunately correct. Two figures dressed in shorts (and when I say shorts I mean shorts), Hawaiian shirts, one with a red neckerchief tied round, the other with a cheeky Dutch seaman's cap with white cover sitting slightly askew on his head, both holding a glass of orange juice, approached my table. The louder of the pair sought permission to join me and before I could draw breath to say yea or nay they sat.
"You don't mind, do you?" said the loud one, perhaps not quite so loud this morning. "You've got such an understanding eke." Perhaps his subdued tone had something to do with the black eye he was sporting. "I'm Lou and this is my friend Rex." I felt forced into mumbling my name. They left their glasses on the table and went in search of some food, returning each with a bowl of muesli tempered by Greek honeyed yoghourt. My contemplative mood had vanished with the morning dew. So much for working on my novel. However, my curiosity had been aroused by their use of the polari accompanied by, I wondered and dreaded, the power of gaydar.
"Well, what brings you trolling along to these sunny shores?" enquired Lou.
"I…" Without permitting me the courtesy of giving an answer he continued
"We're here for a bit of R & R. Rex has been under a little stress of late, haven't you, Rex? … and he's temporarily a little…" Here Lou lowered his voice to a whisper in order to impart a confidentiality. "… a little impuissant. It sounds a little less damning in French."
"You traitor," enjoined Rex. "You said that's our little secret."
"Don't worry, love. Neil's an omi of the world. I can see it in his eke. He's family."
"Nick," I corrected, but I don't think Lou heard. I don't think Lou listened to anybody, which might have explained the black eye.
"Any road up we're here for a little rest, a change of scenery and the chance of adventure."
"Was it the chance of adventure that gave you that black eye?" I ventured.
"You see," said Lou. "I said Neil…"
"Nick!" I speedily countered, with success this time.
"… uh, Nick… Are you sure, heartface?"
"I think I know my own name, ducky."
"Ooh, he's bold. I told you he had an understanding face. Didn't I tell you, Rex?" Rex nodded his agreement. "Back to our moutons. Now where was we? Oh, yes, that's right. Black eye. No, I can't. Rex, you'll have to tell him." Rex had been given permission to speak.
"Well, we were down in this little bar by the harbour - full of butch fishermen, rough hewn men…"
"Sympathetic little place," interrupted Lou, "run by an Irishman called Séamus. Does a very nice crème de menthe with a head."
"… and Lou committed an indiscretion.
"It could happen to anyone, Rex"
"He only decided to chat up this callow youth."
"How was I to know it was that bear's boyfriend?"
"You won't get any sympathy from me because you were being unfaithful."
"I've got to have some fulfilment during your little… er, indisposition."
I was beginning to feel superfluous to this conversation and got on with my breakfast before it grew cold. I refused to let this bickering pair of old queens spoil the enjoyment of my meal. Finally they announced that they were going to spend the day by the pool and left to prepare themselves for that undertaking. I took time over my toast and coffee.
Finally I returned to my apartment and set up the laptop on the table on the balcony. At ten I looked up to see the Hansen family taking up residence by the pool. A friendly wave and a smile, a friendly wave and a smile returned. Dr Hansen and Gunnar displayed a modicum of Swedish reticence over this show of emotion, but the greetings from the other three were wholehearted. I settled back to my work. Ten minutes later the world suddenly stood still for the entrance of the decorators. The peace and calm of the pool were shattered as Lou, closely followed by Rex, talked his way through to claim their sunbeds to my instant horror next to the Hansen family. As the breakfast conversation flashed through my mind, I was hit by a feeling of foreboding. I froze as I watched the pair dressed only in the minutest of speedos parade in and take up court. I had to concede that for forty to fifty year olds they were in fair shape, but I couldn't expunge the expression 'mutton dressed up as lamb' from my consciousness. The work ethic had been destroyed for the morning.
I walked out of the hotel and up the road to the bus stop. I had a quarter of an hour wait, then climbed aboard a bus bound for Playas de las Americas. I thought back to the time when it was barely more than a one hotel town with a row of shops and a restaurant. That must have been in the eighties. Far be it from my intention, but it was becoming a a sentimental journey. Will and I could walk along the empty beach, hand in hand, before arriving an hour later at the fishing village of Los Cristianos. Or we would swim in the warm January sea and come out covered in black volcanic sand. Now there was a promenade between the two towns and the usual seaside amenities of houses, hotels and restaurants. At noon I took a seat outside one of those restaurants and ordered a coffee and an open sandwich. I was content to let my mind wander, and in any direction apart from that of those two buffoons sunning themselves by the pool at Villa Mandi. I wanted to think about Will; I ended up thinking of Lou and Rex, and rather unpleasant thoughts they were too. I was horrified at the thought of their imposing themselves on the Hansen family, but found it absolutely nauseating that Björn in his quest for carnal knowledge might somehow become entrapped. My conscience was still suffering from what might or might not have occurred between us a few nights ago, but at least I could salve it by believing I was a victim of circumstances, that I was even the innocent party, but in this situation that night's predator was himself in danger of becoming the prey. I stared out to sea oblivious of the passers-by on the promenade. What could I do? Warn the Hansens of the impending danger? What proof did I have to base that warning on? My own intuition and experience were insufficient grounds.
I paid up and continued my walk along the promenade towards Los Cristianos. I strolled up through the town and back to the hotel on the hillside overlooking it. It had gone four when I reached my apartment and the poolside was all but deserted. I made myself a cup of tea and settled down with a book to soak up the last rays of the day's sun. By six the subtropical night would have taken over. The book slid from my hands as I dozed off after the exertions of the day. When I came to, it was time to shower and change for dinner.
I arrived at the dining room a little later than my wont. The meal was in full swing with happy, sun warmed families collected around the tables, their children scampering hither and thither. The meal that night was a buffet with more than sufficient selection. As I stood looking for a spare table the young attractive waiter came to my aid. He may have spurned the offer of riches from our London interior decorators, sorry interior designers, but I always found him most attentive and I suspected he was fully acquainted with the power of his own personal charms over gentlemen of our inclination. However, I was seated at a table thankfully out of earshot of my countrymen, but well within sight of theirs and the Hansens' table. The chit chat may have been one way, but the attention paid to it by the brothers Björn and Sven was undeniable and roused within me a mixture of jealousy and rage, if not outrage. If I was not mistaken this was the fixed stare of the rabbit in the headlights, the end of the beginning. During my comings and goings to and from the buffet I unavoidably bumped into one or other of the protagonists or antagonists. The interior designers affirmed, without being asked, that they had indeed been getting to know the Hansens and their sweet children. I resisted an invitation to move and join them at their table. The Hansens on the other hand had spent a quiet day and incidentally got to know 'some of my countrymen'. The next day they intended to take the children off to do some scuba diving. I was relieved to think that for a few hours at least the quarry would safe.
The temporary feeling of relief allowed me to relax that evening. As my day had been free I went back to the apartment and worked on my novel for a couple of hours before retiring. The following morning I was up early, str8 into breakfast and out again without meeting anyone. The inspiration continued, no doubt aided by the knowledge that I could work without the distraction of having to look down from the balcony to check on what my young Swedish protégés were up to and that they were safe. Even the interior designers were more conspicuous by their absence and it was only later that the awful thought struck me that they too might have decided to discover the joys of snorkelling, but my mind was put at rest at about six when I heard their voices on the stairs and I quickly gathered their day had been another failure in their quest to find a cure for Rex's 'impuissance'.
I decided to have dinner at eight, rather late for me, but I wanted to reach the end of the chapter I was writing before taking a break. So it was with a feeling of great self-satisfaction at having achieved so much over the day that I reached the dining room. I was shown to a table by my attentive little waiter and said good evening as I passed the Hansens. Their scuba diving had been a success and with that news I continued on my way. The Swedes had taken on a healthy glow from their place in the sun, so different from the pasty whiteness of their skin on the day of their arrival. I was just ordering when the peace of the dining room was shattered by the entry of the interior decorators. My waiter visibly winced. No member of staff rushed to attend to their seating, not that that imposed upon their sensitive nature. They made a beeline for the Hansens' table, plonked themselves down on empty chairs at the next table and talked across at the Hansens. Court was in session. Five minutes and no service later Lou and Rex asked the Hansens if they might join them. They took pity and acquiesced to their sitting at their table. Björn and Sven were enthralled, Gunnar courteous, but indifferent. My intuition told me that they had committed an irreversible error. It was obvious, to me at least, who was in the driving seat and I feared that the train of events put in motion earlier in the week was now speedily closing in on its destination. From over my soup I could see the rabbits already dazzled by the headlights. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but body language told all. Fru Hansen, can't you see the danger your cubs are in?
I lingered over my meal. I don't know why, but I felt a responsibility for Björn and Sven, and then the answer became obvious. As Lou and Rex would say - they're family. But what did responsibility mean, for I was metaphorically chained to my table? Much as the flesh wanted to intervene, the spirit was too weak. My grounds were but suspicions. If I had heard the two Londoners discussing plans, I could have acted, but I hadn't. My suspicions were the product of my knowledge of human nature, hardly enough to permit me to stand up in a restaurant and denounce the yet to be guilty parties. Finally the dinner party broke up with laughter and smiles and an air of unanimity. If only I could hear what was going on. By now my coffee was cold. I must have been the last diner in the dining room. I got up and walked out. As my alluring little waiter wished me good night I pressed a euronote into his hand and apologised for keeping him waiting.
When I got back to my apartment I was still worrying. The Hansen family had said good night; from the apartment above there were just the normal neighbourly sounds, not even any raised voices. What was there to worry about? That night I slept badly, inevitable with what I had on my mind, or do I mean conscience? Dawn came at long last just before eight o'clock. I rose from my disturbed slumber with no clear plan of what to do that day. I still had two days before I needed to submit my weekly copy to my editor and that little article for the monthly GY mag could wait, indeed had to wait for the little bout of turmoil playing itself out in Villa Mandi to subside, or I had no article. There was no question of writing my novel today. To improve my chances of pulling myself together I hauled on my speedos and dived into the pool. A few lengths later I got out, sat on the side in the warmth of the sun before showering off the chlorinated water, shaving and getting dressed. Breakfast again was eaten aimlessly. I wandered back to my apartment and slumped into a chair on the balcony. The sun hadn't yet reached it. I looked at my watch. Ten o'clock. As if on cue the Hansens arrived to claim their sunbeds for the day, and to my horror it was the Hansens minus one. I started. The predators taken their prey. I picked up a book and a towel and hurried down the stairs to the poolside, broke into a nonchalant stroll, said good morning to the Hansens and sought their permission to occupy the sunbed next to them. I resisted going to the nub of the matter and engaged Dr and Mrs Hansen in small talk. Finally my patience snapped and I enquired
"Is Björn not feeling well today?"
"Oh, he's fine," answered Mrs Hansen. "Lou and Rex offered to take him to the top of Mount Teide. He's doing a school project on volcanoes and they said they would be pleased to take him out for the day." In the warm sun a cold shudder went through my body. I hadn't even noticed them leave in the morning. That was dereliction of duty on my part, I told myself. "They'll be back about five."
I turned back to my book, but didn't read a line. I had been eliminated from the equation, I had failed by not acting earlier, not raising the alarm or voicing my fears. How could two parents not see the obvious danger? It must be a cultural thing, not reading the signs or the body language. I was in anguish. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had never felt so powerless.
Time hung heavily. Like clockwork Dr and Mrs Hansen and two boys went off for coffee at eleven, lunch at one and tea at four. They invited me each time. I decline coffee and lunch. As churned up as I was, I was in no mood to be sociable. At four I accepted, not because I felt any better in myself, but because we were approaching the bewitching hour and I wanted to be at hand. Five o'clock came and went. I couldn't impose on their hospitality any longer and made to leave them when there was a knock at the door. My young waiter was outside and handed Mrs Hansen a message. The interior designers had telephoned to say that that because of a 'hitch' there was a delay. It might have put the Hansens' minds at rest, but not mine. I returned to my apartment to agonise. I put off going to dinner for as long as I could. As I went into the dining room, my little waiter immediately accompanied me to the Hansens' table. A subconscious headcount revealed one Hansen still missing. A further message had been telephoned. Owing to the late hour our missing party would eat before returning. I found it not only difficult to eat, but to conduct a conversation. I must have been communicating my anxiety to the Hansens, but the parents remained serene, the two younger boys bubbly. My contemplation was suddenly interrupted by the alas! familiar, but jarring tones of the two interior decorators who appeared from the direction of the reception desk with a very giggly Björn embraced between them. In an insensitive manner they presented the boy to his parents and like pantomime characters bowed deeply and thanked the Hansens père et mère for the 'loan' of their son. Björn slumped onto a spare chair at the table and grinned at everybody, obviously the worse for wear under the influence of alcohol. The 'wicked uncles' retired in all haste. Gunnar and Sven, not fully appreciating the circumstances, were naturally keen to know what their elder brother had been up to. The noisy and joyful atmosphere in the dining room camouflaged any undue attention that the little scene unfolding at our table might have attracted. I too was overjoyed at the return… I was going to say safe return, but that had yet to be established… at the return of the eldest son. It was clear that no coherent account of the day's events would be forthcoming that evening. I made my excuses, assuring the Hansens that I understood they had the stresses and strains of the day and the needs of the family to attend to. I wished them good night and received in return a louche grin from Björn.
Back in my apartment I slumped into an armchair, not only emotionally drained, but tired from the bad night I had suffered the previous night. If ever there was a moment I needed a brandy or a scotch, this was it. Fortunately I had none, not even a beer, and so the self-imposed 'no drinking alone' rule remained intact. I looked at my watch. It was only nine o'clock, but I decided to go to bed. I slept deeply for two hours, then awoke with a start. I listened into the night… silence, apart from the sound coming from the flat above of bedsprings being rhythmically tried and tested. The next thing I knew it was seven thirty the following morning.
I rose, carried out my ablutions and went into breakfast. No sign of either the Hansens nor the interior designers. My little waiter served me with coffee. I enquired about the Swedish family.
"Oh, they were here earlier, señor. They have gone away for the day." I sighed at the realisation that my frustrated curiosity would have to wait several hours more. I returned to my apartment to prepare myself for a day's uninterrupted work. The first interruption came as I was ten minutes into chapter eleven of my novel with a knock at the door and from the loud chatter outside it was no surprise when I found Lou and Rex on the doorstep, in light mood, shall I say?
"Oh, good morning," said Rex.
"We've come to ask you a bijou favourette," continued Lou. I couldn't allow my reputation be tarnished by having a hotel guest spotting me entertain these two roués on my doorstep. I invited them in.
"Mmm, I see you're settled in," said Lou after studying my personal effects.
"Yes, I'm just waiting for the mauve velveteen curtains to be delivered." I couldn't resist the tease.
"Mauve velveteen? You must be joking, ducky," said Lou. "I wouldn't be seen…"
"Lou! Lou, dear. Nick is teasing."
"Sorry, love," said Lou
"It's just that mauve velveteen is rather a delicate topic at the moment," explained Rex. "That's partly why we're here."
"Take a seat, ge…" I hesitated on the word 'gentlemen'. "I'll put the kettle on." I made some coffee for all three of us. Noticing that it had just gone ten I peered over the balcony to satisfy myself that I had been given the right information.
"They're away for the day," said Rex.
"That's really why we're here," added Lou.
"That's right." They completed each other's sentences like an old married couple, which I suppose they were. "It's an errand of mercy. We've been recalled to London. It's Mrs Pargiter and the mauve velveteen curtains…"
"And the green drawing room, Rex. Don't forget the green drawing room." Lou had obviously been the more affected by this petite crise.
"She's threatened not to sign the contract. So we've got to go back to London. Today. Times is hard, Nick."
"The power of the almighty dollar over good taste, if you ask me," said Lou.
"So," continued Rex, "we'd like you to hand this package to the Swedish boy…" Lou squealed with laughter at the mention of 'package' and 'Swedish boy' in the same sentence. "Don't worry, Nick. It's his hormones."
"Björn, Rex! Björn. He's got a name. And you should know that by now. It was his package that saved you. Quite a rescue package, in fact." Lou squealed with laughter again, this time at his own joke. I felt a story might be unravelling here.
"How did your trip to Mount Teide go yesterday?" I enquired not being able to give up such an opportunity to find out.
"Absolutely fantabulosa." said Lou as his eyes glazed and he quickly reminisced about the previous day. "That boy was a keen student and such a quick learner."
"Björn, Lou! Björn. He's got a name, luv." I mentally put the score at deuce.
"He certainly taught you a thing or two, may I add without fear of contradiction? Mmm!"
"Yees, I must admit he did cure my petit problème." said Rex.
"Huh, little problem! It became a big problem last night." Lou turned to me. "You know, Nick, he's an animal. He wouldn't let me get a wink of sleep last night." I was surprised that they'd remembered I was here. "A right little tomcat."
"Yes," I said drily, "so I heard," and I cleared my throat.
"You see, Rex, I told you. Didn't I tell you? About disturbing the neighbours. He can be so passionate at times, Nick."
"Anyway," said Rex, " we've got to pack now, return the car by twelve and plane at two. So if would be so kind to hand over this package, you know, discreetly, strictly entre deux, if you know what I mean." He tapped the side of his nose with his left forefinger and winked.
"Love you and leave you," they cried in unison. "Ta ever so for the coffee. We'll think of you back in the smoke." They won't, I thought.
At last I could get on with my work, uninterrupted except for the occasional glance over the balcony to see whether anything of interest was happening by the pool. The large jiffy bag lay on the table in front of me waiting for its addressee. At four o'clock the sunworshippers drifted away. I considered it time for a siesta. Perhaps I would see the Hansens at dinner.
The sun had gone down when I came to. I showered and dressed, looked at my watch and went down to dinner. I was met by my little waiter who immediately conducted me to the Hansens' table. A place had been set for me and the family was sitting over drinks, awaiting my arrival first before ordering. 'Am I that predictable?' I wondered. They were in bubbly mood and had obviously spent an enjoyable day. The sun had made the skin of the younger two boys glow, contrasting with their blond hair. Björn looked positively Latino. I sat opposite him. He was wearing another toile shirt under which his dark nipples were alluringly visible. About his neck was a necklace manufactured from shark's teeth. The family had been touring various attractions which included riding camels. When the meal was over, I drew Björn on one side and told him that Lou and Rex had returned to England and that they had left an envelope with me for his attention. He said something to his mother in Swedish and she replied in English
"Don't be too late, Björn. You have had a long day." I took that as permission for him to come along to my apartment. As we walked from the dining room along by the pool towards my apartment I could smell the fragrance of his body in the warm air. I wanted to grab his hand, turn him round and kiss him. I don't think he would have resisted either. I thought back to the night spent with him and remembered that whatever had happened it must have been initiated by him. If he wanted another experience, I was ready, but although the law in Spain and Sweden might allow it, age placed the moral responsibility of not putting him under any pressure on me. I pushed the keycard into the slot and unlocked the front door. I bade Björn take a seat while I fetched a couple of bottles of fruit juice from the fridge and poured them into glasses. Once we were settled I went to the safe, took out his jiffy bag and handed it to him. He carefully extracted a card; it was a business card converted into a greetings card. On the front was a picture of Lou and Rex, smiling and dressed in pink dungarees, paintbrush and roller in hand. 'The Full Works - Interior Design and Decoration.' He opened the card and read out:
"'To Bjorn (sic) Thank you for a wonderful day. We will always have designs on you and a place in our hearts. Love Lou and Rex' and there's this attached to it." He slipped a hundred euro note from under a paperclip. "That makes me feel like a rentboy," exclaimed Björn.
"Take it," I said. "Think of it as experience." I wondered whether my cute little waiter would have got that note if he'd shown a little more interest. "Isn't there something else in the envelope?" He slid out a little box and opened it. In the centre was an earstud. He handed it to me and I held it under the light. "From the way that sparkles they certainly didn't buy it on a blanket trip."
"A blanket trip?" I explained about the free excursions round the island that would end up in a salesroom where the main thrust was to sell high quality - and highly priced - orthopædic bedding and they added cheap trinkets for good measure.
"Those are real diamonds." Björn turned the card over. 'Remember to wear it in your left ear.'
"Nick, I'd like to invite you out to dinner," he said waving the hundred euro note.
"Shouldn't I be inviting you?"
"It would make me feel better about this," he replied still waving the note. As I warmed to the idea, I felt my hormones taking over.
"You do mean just to dinner?" He smiled at me.
"If you wish. Then back here for brandy and coffee?"
"You're too young to drink brandy." That didn't close any doors.
"I'll talk to my parents. And talking about parents I had better get back. Will you keep all this in your safe while I think what to do with it?" I nodded, he kissed my cheek, finished his glass of fruit juice and said good night.
The events of the evening left me in a contemplative mood. Firstly the fact that I was coming on to a fifteen year old boy. Fine, I could salve my conscience by saying really he was coming on to me. He looked more mature, was experienced and making an informed decision. In a subtle way he was doing everything with the intention of seducing me. He had done that once already and I suspect he may well have gone a long way in encouraging Lou and Rex during their excursion to the volcano. There were other ramifications, however. I completely put out of my mind the thought that I was not left exactly untouched by his brother Sven, but more importantly it was a sign that I was letting go, letting go of Will. Would he have approved? We were pledged, as I said, 'until death us do part'. Would he have wanted me to lead the celibate life after he had gone? I certainly wouldn't have imposed that on him, were the tables turned. I think not. He wasn't the jealous type, but then he didn't need to be. We were such a devoted couple; we were never even tempted to have a bit on the side, not even a threesome and not even during our early days together at university, and let's face it, the gay life was scarcely covert there from the top academics down to the newest undergraduates. It didn't have to be tolerated; it was so part of the scene and accepted as such by the community. Looking back I wondered how many an unsuspecting schoolboy gained his place because he had given his prospective tutor the glad eye at interview. Maybe I was one of them. Both Will and I had been so accepting of all this. But I repeat myself.
The following morning I had to get on with my weekly article. The hormones rushing round my body not only inspired me for the weekly slot, but also spurred me on for my monthly contribution to GY. Therefore by eleven I felt entitled to taking the rest of the day off. I changed into my shorts and flipflops and went down to the pool. It was the time of day when the Hansens had gone off for morning coffee leaving Björn alone with his book. I asked him what he was reading.
"History," he replied. "It's about the tradition of Swedish neutrality. You see, we have one week free of school, but the second week has been taken out of school time and in order to get permission I have to undertake some schoolwork. Not that I mind. It's harder for Gunnar and Sven. When we go in at four, they have to be made to work, although they have less to do than me. I have tests and exams coming up. By the way my parents gave permission for me to invite you, but it's got to be tomorrow night. It's the only free time left."
"Let me consult my social calendar," I replied, but I fear the irony of the remark was lost.
"Of course. I don't know where to go."
"Don't worry. I know a little place off the tourist track and I'll organise the taxis. Eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock"
"By the way, do you eat goat? They do a very nice goat stew."
At that moment the peace was shattered by the return of two bouncy boys and their parents. Had my prayers been answered? Gunnar and Sven were dressed in speedos!
"Hello, Nick," said Dr and Mrs Hansen.
"Hi!" said the two younger boys. They sported a tanline from where they had been wearing boardies. Mrs Hansen spoke.
"I hear you want to borrow our son for the evening. We must start charging a fee, he's so popular." I was sufficiently suntanned for it to hide my blushes and sufficiently discreet not to mention a charge of a hundred euros. I was also taken aback since Björn had asked me out, but perhaps he had been dressing it up a bit to gain his parents' permission and I was not going to stir up trouble.
"Why, who else has wanted to borrow him?"
"Oh, those two funny little men from London. Didn't you know?"
"Of course," I said. "I remember now. I just hadn't viewed it in that light."
The following evening I met Björn in the reception area. I gasped as I saw him again in his semiformal wear of toile shirt, open at the neck, and form-hugging dark grey trousers. His sheer poise made him the centre of attraction, far different from the youth at the poolside. I knew which direction the evening would take when I saw him with his continental gentleman's handbag looped round his wrist. The taxi was waiting for us outside. It took us up into the mountains to a little village, perhaps not so little now as when Will and I first visited it. We stopped at the local inn. I paid off the driver and we went in. Off the beaten track from the mainstream world of 'kiss-me-quick' hatted tourists and Saga louts, it was the gay community's best kept secret on the island, owned as it was by two sympathetic ex-pats, one of whom managed while the other cooked. They were chums, an item of long standing, and were particularly careful about whom they employed. Everyone there, whether English or Spanish, was family. I had decided that come whatever, I would indulge my curiosity that evening. I wanted to know two things. What happened on the day excursion to Mount Teide, and what happened when Björn slept in my bed. After all, in two days' time Björn and the rest of the Hansens were going to be but a memory. I think Björn was relieved to see that the menu contained more than just ragoût à la chèvre. We talked about our families and our backgrounds, life in Sweden; about how on one of their excursions they had met another Swedish family with twins and how his younger brothers had chatted them up, Gunnar the girl and Sven the boy; how his parents had fully accepted his homosexuality and just tried to help him make wise choices and decisions in his life; how they had been apprehensive about his spending a day with the interior decorators, but less so in allowing him to come out with me for the evening. To the best of his knowledge they knew nothing of the nature of our nocturnal encounter earlier in the holiday, just that it had happened and that he was rather late returning. I still could not admit to him that I too knew little about the events of the evening. You simply cannot tell the person that you have just had intercourse with that you remember nothing about it, but I still had to know. I had one more trick up my sleeve.
"Tell me. How did your day with Lou and Rex go?"
"Fantastic. To begin with I found it difficult to understand their English. They told me that's how people speak in London."
"Some people do," I added in mitigation for my native language.
"We had to leave early because the queues get rather long for the cable car. We spent a long time at the top and I was able to get some fabulous photos. You see, I'm doing a project on volcanoes at school and if I can get a good mark it will not only help my final exam grade, but it will make things easier as far as having time off school to come here. My parents have to say it is either educational or for health reasons. Health reasons are rather difficult for a whole family and you need a doctor's certificate and so it has to be for educational reasons. We came down from the top at lunch time. I just didn't know where the time went. Lou and Rex then drove me round the area to see some of the landscape and the odd formations of lava and then back down towards the coast. We hadn't eaten and so we ended up in an inn rather like this and had lunch. I was given some wine to drink and I am not used to it."
"We noticed that when you got back to Villa Mandi," I smiled.
"They talked about the gay life in London and how they had used their gaydar to spot me. Then the wine made me feel all sexy and they asked me if I wanted to do anything and I said yes. They spoke to the waiter and we went up to one of the rooms in the inn and we… I think the expression is played around… nothing serious, but again time passed quickly and it got dark and we were supposed to be back for five. Lou telephoned the hotel to say that we would be late. But what I didn't know was that Rex could not get an erection. That is until I undressed in front of him and then there was a celebration which made us even later."
All my suspicions from the veiled language were proving true. But I had to know.
"Did either of them penetrate you?" For some reason that would have been an unforgivable act, the final desecration of youth, and yet wasn't that thought coming from me hypocritical?
"Oh no. Rex gave me a blowjob. That's what he called it. You don't learn words like that in school English lessons, but then, so have my friends at home. And Lou just looked on."
"And you enjoyed it?"
"Oh yes. It was all experience. If I'm gay, I want to enjoy being gay. One day I want to meet a boy I can fall in love with and spend my life with and because I am what my brothers call an intellectual, it doesn't mean I don't want to have fun."
I judged it was time to go. I called the waiter and asked for the bill and asked him to call a taxi. Björn slipped me the infamous hundred euro note and said how much he had enjoyed the evening so far. The 'so far' didn't go unnoticed. I left some change on the tray for a tip and handed the notes back to Björn. The waiter announced that the taxi had arrived. It was just after eleven when we arrived back at Villa Mandi. At reception Björn rang his parents to say that he was back safely and that he was just going off to my apartment to have coffee.
"And brandy?" I asked after he had put the receiver down.
I put the coffee on to percolate and took out the bottle of brandy I had purchased specially. Unfortunately there were no brandy glasses and tumblers had to do. Before leaving I had made sure that the armchair was loaded with books and boxes so that we both had to sit on the settee. The brandy coursed through our veins and emboldened by that on top of the wine I went through to my bedroom and returned with the drawer from the bedside table.
"Is that yours?" I asked without standing on ceremony, showing him the condom and its now watery contents from our previous encounter.
"No," he grinned. "It's definitely yours." I had my answer to the question. "But tonight it will be mine. Isn't there an English saying? He who pays the piper calls the tune?" Who was I to argue?
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