PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
BOOK I - The Path to Paradise Begins in Hell
***
Ingemisco tanquam reus
Culpa rubet vultus meus
***
PROLOGUE
BOOK 1 - The Path to Paradise Begins in Hell
***
Ingemisco tanquam reus
Culpa rubet vultus meus
***
London, January 2024.
Before Jorge could even say hello, Calem’s voice was already on the line.
“I think Amir and I just broke up!”
He pictured Jorge settling into his chair, lighting a cigarette. There was a soft scrape, then the crackle of a lighter.
“Whatever happened, cara?”
“We had another argument about me coming to visit you tomorrow without him. Amir stormed out when I said he was being silly. I don’t think he is coming back. In fact, he left his keys behind.”
Jorge scoffed.
“Jesus, that’s so low-budget.”
Calem managed a snort despite himself.
“Honestly, when I saw you guys last, I could feel tension between you. I liked him, but I didn’t think he was a good fit for you as your boyfriend.”
Calem dropped Amir’s keys into the open desk drawer.
“I know. You told me.”
Calem paused as Jorge puffed out smoke.
“Are you going to try and patch things up?”
“No. If he wants to leave, he should leave.”
Jorge said nothing, the pause stretching between them.
“But you’re still coming to Lisbon tomorrow?”
Calem stared at the keys but was too tired to do anything.
“Of course I’m coming! But I might be a little deflated!”
“That’s okay. You were there for me when Matthew and I broke up… every moment. So don’t think twice about it. We’ll have fun when I’m not singing.”
Calem heard the concern in Jorge’s voice, as though his hand had reached through the phone to rest on his shoulder.
“Okay, let me finish packing. I’ll see you tomorrow around midday, ciao!”
“Ciao!”
They hung up.
***
The next morning, Calem’s taxi arrived at four to take him from his flat in Paddington to Stansted Airport, where he would fly to Lisbon.
To Calem, Lisbon seemed a friendlier, more manageable Paris, if less glamorous. A city built on memories shared with Jorge. Ancient Moorish walls and peeling Baroque façades lined avenues that always made him feel as though he were drifting through a Fellini film.
Every corner held its own story, not just of explorers and kings, but of him and Jorge. Late-night walks arm in arm, slow breakfasts, moments that had once felt permanent. Afternoons spent wandering through Belém beneath the monastery’s shadow, late nights in Bairro Alto that carried into dawn, and Baixa — always Baixa. This was the heart of the city, and Jorge’s flat sat right at its centre. It did not hurt that Jorge’s long-awaited debut was just around the corner, singing Gluck’s Armide at the São Carlos, right down the street.
***
Lisbon, January 2024.
When Calem surfaced from the metro, the freezing air hit him hard. Praça dos Restauradores had not changed. The obelisk remained a silent sentry, yet everything around it felt strangely hollow, as if the square belonged to someone else’s dream.
The city was awake, not yet fully stirring.
The muted winter sunlight cast long shadows across the cobblestones. He pulled his coat tighter as he walked the long stretch of Avenida da Liberdade, the kind of street that made him feel too exposed, too small. The trees stood bare against the sky, and every gust of wind scraped at his skin.
The cold air stung, but the warmth on his cheeks did not. Tears gathered on his lashes. He could bear the pain more easily than the shame. Another failed relationship. The feeling would not stay buried.
The walk from the metro was brutal. Each step up the steep hill felt harder than the last. He cursed himself for not taking a taxi, but relief arrived ten minutes later when he reached Jorge’s apartment building.
He hesitated for a breath. Then he pressed the doorbell, the cold brass numbing his fingertip. The buzz came almost immediately. The old, heavy door groaned open and he stepped inside. Behind him, it slammed shut. The scent of stone and age welcomed him like an old friend as he climbed the stairs to the penthouse flat.
Calem reached the top of the stairs and heard the door open. Around the corner stood Jorge, his arms outstretched.
Jorge glanced at the dark circles beneath Calem’s eyes. Then he smiled and pulled him close, though the crease between his brows remained.
“You look… like hell… sorry, but you do.”
Jorge giggled as Calem’s cold cheek touched his.
“You can use the slippers by the door.”
Calem raised his hand dramatically to his temple as he entered the flat.
“Your flat never fails to impress!”
He dropped his backpack, kicked off his shoes, and slipped the slippers on.
“Well, I haven’t slept. And I’ve been crying most of the night and on the way here.”
Jorge playfully slapped Calem’s backside as he welcomed him into the flat.
***
The flat was high-ceilinged, bathed in grey winter light. Pale daylight filtered down the hallway. Old master paintings hung beside more modern pieces. A Persian rug stretched along the floor, its worn fringe showing years of use. Beneath his slippers, it felt dense and soft. Faint music drifted from another room, probably some obscure Baroque opera Jorge was preparing. Despite the warmth of the room, his limbs felt heavy.
“Well, you’re here now. Let’s see about cheering you up.”
Calem threw his hands up in mock surrender.
“Oh God, do I have to do that too?”
Jorge lifted his hand as if he were about to strike Calem.
“Yes. And also let me slap you for ignoring my warnings about him!”
Jorge folded his arms, his expression narrowing in mock anger.
“Yes, I know!”
Jorge shot a quick look at Calem, eyebrows lifting.
“Is it just the one backpack?”
“You know I always travel lightly. Even during my six-month sabbatical through North Africa and the Middle East, all I had was this one backpack.”
Jorge spread his hands in mock defeat.
“Christ, how do you do it? I’m like Adela Quested when I go for a walk to the park!”
“My usual room, cara?”
“Yes, the one at the end of the hall. Settle in, and let’s have a coffee in the kitchen. I got you pastéis de nata from your bakery.”
Jorge’s mischievous smile told Calem he knew he was once again on a diet. Calem also realised Jorge was trying to cheer him up, and he could never resist those tempting custard tarts.
“Oh God! I’m on a diet!”
Calem pretended to frown.
“I know. That’s why I bought them!”
Jorge laughed, disappearing into the kitchen.
***
Calem slipped into his room and shrugged off his winter coat and scarf. He changed into more comfortable clothes before making his way to the kitchen, the warmth of the flat gradually chasing away the chill of the morning.
***
The large kitchen felt lived-in and welcoming. Its most captivating feature stood by the window: a fireplace that warmed the room. Intricate azulejo tiles surrounded it, their colours softened by years of use. Dry wood crackled softly in the fireplace, while the scent of burning logs spread through the room.
Jorge, already seated by the fireplace, tapped a reply on his phone, unaware of Calem entering. The ceiling lights barely glowed, the room dim and hushed, as if even the sounds had forgotten how to reach him. When Calem filled the moka, Jorge looked at him for a second before returning his attention to his phone.
The firelight flickered across Jorge’s face. It caught the grey at his temples and the stormy green of his eyes. Calem had once thought those eyes impossible to ignore. Jorge was striking in that effortless Mediterranean way — tall, lean, sun-darkened even in winter, with a quiet intensity that never demanded attention but always held it.
Even in loungewear, there was something about him that suggested he was always on the verge of stepping on stage — stylishly dressed, as though performance clung to him like a second skin. They were so alike in some ways, and so irreconcilably different in others, that love had always seemed like a door they had silently agreed never to open.
Calem sank into the chair, the old wood creaking under him like a whisper. He rubbed his palms together, then held them out to the flames. The heat bled slowly into his skin.
“Another two hundred Grindr messages to answer?”
“Yes! So many Mr. Right Nows to devastate! Whatever shall I do?”
He laughed and returned to the stove.
Calem knew that Jorge distrusted grand romantic gestures. He had built his life out of restraint and survival rather than spectacle. While Calem chased cities, lovers, and intensity, Jorge had returned to Lisbon instead of pursuing larger stages abroad. He preferred roots to horizons, continuity to upheaval. Even this long-awaited debut at the São Carlos had come later than many expected, the result of choices Jorge rarely discussed but seemed at peace with.
“Tomorrow is the prima, right?”
Ash collapsed in the grate as Calem spoke.
“Yes.”
Jorge reached for a pastel and wolfed it down in one bite.
“Do you feel ready?”
Jorge’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the sheet music spread across the large kitchen table, one corner bent from where he had clearly been over it several times.
“Yes. Thankfully, everything has gone really well. The rehearsal period has been a delight for a change. No diva tantrums and so on…”
Calem checked his phone for a message that would never arrive.
“God, I’m so tired of everything. Fuck my life!”
Jorge stopped typing and closed his phone.
“Come on, you’re better off.”
He emptied his ashtray into the bin and returned.
“You’re smoking again?”
Jorge looked guilty for a moment, then burst into hearty laughter that resembled a cross between Scooby-Doo’s whimsical laughter and an operatic chromatic descending scale.
“Well, you know me. I always have to have something in my mouth!”
Calem stilled, mid-gesture, and placed his phone on the coffee table next to him.
“God, it never gets better.”
“‘Things never get better! But we do!’”
Calem smiled wistfully.
“If you say so, Miss Rivers!”
Jorge settled back more comfortably into his chair.
“I thought I’d finally found someone like the first boy I ever loved.”
Jorge leaned back in the chair, one foot tucked beneath his thigh, fingers loosely clasped over his mouth as though listening to a rehearsal rather than a confession. Calem had always suspected Jorge understood that silence, when held properly, could be kinder than advice.
“Well, there’s your first mistake.”
Calem raised his cup in a silent toast, paused before drinking, then set it back down on the coffee table. His attention turned to the pastéis, and he reached for one, but thought better of it.
“I know, I know. But he was my first love, my first boyfriend, my first everything, and the memory of him casts a shadow over every man I’m with.”
Jorge eyed another pastel as he took a sip of coffee.
“You always speak cryptically about him. But who was this guy and what exactly happened between the two of you?”
Calem watched the flames and took another sip of coffee.
“Hmm, deliciousness. Just as I like my men: white and weak.”
Jorge leaned towards him and laughed.
“If that were only so, you wouldn’t be in this state!”
The soft crackle of the wood settled around them. Calem felt it in his chest as he sipped his coffee and eased into the chair.
“I suppose so.”
Calem fell silent, absorbed in the pattern of the azulejos.
“So, are you going to tell me, or not?”
The memory came uninvited, dragging Calem back more than twenty years to a summer he had never truly left behind. The name followed close behind — one he had spent half a lifetime pretending he had forgotten.
“I haven’t said his name out loud, since…”
Calem interrupted himself as his lips curled into a crooked smile.
Jorge did not press.
“He’s the reason I can never have a happy ending.”
Calem’s expression turned lifeless.
“I can still feel the cold marble church steps I sat on that day. The heat. Dry. Oppressive. The laughter. Too loud. And then — something broke. Something was born. In him. In me. Between us — deep. Quiet. Implacable. I didn’t understand it then. I knew it. I just couldn’t name it.”
The wood popped.
He whispered it almost to himself.
“Ben.”
***
