CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 1
Calem woke slowly.
A human-shaped white flicker crossed the corner of his vision, then vanished.
He blinked — nothing.
Probably just blurred vision.
Then he noticed the dampness in his boxers.
Sweat? Piss?
Deep down, he already knew the truth. He hesitated before touching the wet fabric and brought his fingers to his nose. The unmistakable scent of semen hit him.
Calem slipped into the bathroom with a clean pair of boxers, careful not to let the door click shut loudly enough to wake Jorge.
He took a quick shower, dried himself, and dressed. He rinsed the boxers under the tap with soap until the water ran clear through his hands, then wrung them out and hung them over the heater beside the towel rail in his bedroom.
How?
He stood in front of the mirror for a moment.
He barely remembered it.
Flashes of Old Spice.
Ben.
Shaking the thought off, he sat on the edge of the bed with his face buried in his hands. The dream kept returning without order. Not since seeing the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa had he felt so aroused.
He thought of the dim Cornaro Chapel of Santa Maria della Vittoria. The statue looked less like a religious vision than a body caught in a moment that had not yet quite ended. Bernini’s figures were larger than they appeared in photographs. He recalled noticing the details first: the smooth surface of the marble where the angel’s hand touched her robe, the contrast between the cold stone and the expressions of the figures.
Beneath Bernini’s chisel, the marble had seemed to move. The folds of Teresa’s robes rose and gathered around her like waves, yet suspended without weight. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, as though she had been overcome by something she could not resist or explain.
Above her, the seraph hovered, smiling, holding a long golden spear. The spear pointed towards her heart, recalling Teresa’s account of the angel piercing it with a fiery spear. The angel’s face remained gentle while the scene beneath him suggested something more intensely physical.
Around him, visitors whispered and raised their phones. The church smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The door creaked open behind him. Outside, people spoke loudly in the street. Inside, everything remained fixed in that moment of white marble and shadow.
He stayed there a little longer than he had planned, not because he understood what he was looking at, but because the silence of the chapel was different from the noise outside.
Even as he left, he was no closer to understanding it. Teresa still guarded the secret of her ecstasy. His own had betrayed itself with considerably less discretion. The boxers drying over the heater were proof enough.
There would be time enough for such questions later. Breakfast, for now, demanded the greater certainty.
****
He rose with effort and headed to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and began taking things out one by one. Bacon, eggs, orange juice, milk, coffee, a small stack of croissants. It did not compare to the lavish spreads Jorge could whip up, but it would do.
After laying the food out on the balcony table, Calem took a seat.
Alghero moved more slowly in autumn. Last night’s noise had faded to scattered voices and the scrape of café shutters. Salt drifted through the open window, mingling with the smell of cooking meat. Beyond the rooftops, the sea flashed in the morning light. Music carried faintly from the beach cafés below. Calem watched a couple walking along the shore before looking away.
***
He put on Anime Amanti, performed by Jorge’s friend Roberta Mameli. They had shared dinner with her several times. From the moment they met, she and Calem had talked as though they had known each other all their lives. Within minutes of meeting her, Calem had affectionately nicknamed her Gambe — Legs. She had terrific legs and showed them off with justified pride. Afterwards, he had laughed and told Jorge that five minutes in her company contained all the wit and craziness of a four-hour Rossini opera.
Calem rested his arms on the balcony rail and looked out towards the water. Mameli’s voice threaded through the soft pulse of the theorbo, warm and effortless.
Half an hour later, Jorge emerged, showered and wearing a mankini beneath a loose cotton robe. He joined Calem on the balcony, pausing in the doorway with his arms folded before saying anything.
“You’re listening to dearissima.”
Calem did not turn. He just nodded.
The final cadence of Ohimè ch’io cado faded. A brief silence followed before Calem skipped to Merula’s Folle è ben che si crede. Jorge came to stand beside him, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. They remained silent, letting the music play.
“Jorge, I just don’t get how she does that.”
“I know. I hate her for that. The way she carries the breath makes it feel as though the phrase never ends. One note simply disappears into the next.”
Calem smiled faintly.
“I wasn’t talking about the singing, Jorge. I meant how she colours the words.”
Jorge nodded.
“Folle è ben che si crede. Foolish is he who believes.”
They listened for a moment.
“The whole thing is about someone trapped by hope.”
Jorge took a drag from his cigarette.
“Someone who keeps believing despite all evidence.”
Calem looked out towards the sea.
“Yeah, I know.”
Jorge watched him.
“And that’s how you feel about Ben.”
Calem did not answer immediately.
“Yeah.”
Before turning back to the table, Calem leaned over the balcony and watched an oversized delivery van struggle around the corner below.
Jorge poured orange juice, stubbed out the dying cigarette and lit another.
“Cara, is that smile from last night?”
Calem stopped buttering the croissant.
“Huh? What?”
“So, are you going to tell me? Yes or no?”
“Tell you what?”
Jorge let the cigarette burn untouched between his fingers.
“Who was the mystery man you were with last night?”
Calem finished buttering the croissant.
“I don’t understand.”
Jorge smiled and took a sip of orange juice.
“Oh, come on! It’s me!”
Calem set the knife down beside the plate.
“Jorge, what are you talking about?”
Jorge leaned forward, tutting softly as he shook his head in mock disapproval.
“The guy with the hot South African accent! Have you already forgotten?”
“Huh?”
“What a whore!”
Jorge laughed as he took another drag from his cigarette.
“There is only one guy in this flat with a hot South African accent, and that’s me.”
Calem laughed, drinking some orange juice.
“Let me guess — you met him on Grindr! Or was it Scruff?”
“No, seriously. After our chat last night I went straight to bed. And I didn’t skeeze on anyone.”
“As you say.”
Jorge tapped ash into the ashtray and winked at Calem. Somewhere out beyond the balcony, gulls screeched overhead.
“So, is this a one-nighter or the start of something more?”
Ash lengthened over Jorge’s cigarette.
“See, I knew it would take one hot guy and you’d be as right as rain.”
“Please stop! I was alone last night.”
Jorge stopped with the cigarette halfway to his mouth.
“Look, I got a call from my American agent early this morning, and it was urgent.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes, all good now. Anyway, after I ended the call, I went to the kitchen for water and as I passed the door I clearly heard the guy say, ‘Works for us.’ When I returned he told you to answer your phone — but I didn’t hear one ringing. You asked him to stay. I went to bed after that, thinking I’d leave you two to it.”
“That can’t be.”
“Yes, I heard everything clearly.”
Jorge shrugged.
“Jorge, look, I had a dream about Ben. I didn’t want to mention it to you because I know you don’t like talking about him. He never returned my last call to him, as you know. But last night, I dreamt he came to visit me. What you mentioned is the conversation Ben and I had in the dream. I suppose you must’ve overheard me talking in my sleep.”
Jorge stopped smiling, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray harder than needed.
“Trust me. I know voices! The door was slightly open, and I caught every word. Two voices — his deep, silky voice with an unmistakable South African accent, like the one you had when you moved here. But his vowels were slower, more drawn out, with a smooth, lilting rhythm. Melodic, with odd little emphases that made it unmistakable.”
Calem reached for the orange juice.
“No, that’s not possible.”
He lifted the glass halfway to his mouth, paused, then took a sip before setting it down.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re describing Ben’s voice and how he spoke.”
Jorge lit another cigarette.
“Wait a minute. Are you saying I heard Ben speaking in your room this morning? The Ben who is dead?”
“This morning I thought I saw something.”
“Calem, you’re fucking with my nerves!”
Jorge shivered, then reached for his coffee and pushed it away.
“I don’t know, but I clearly heard two people speaking.”
Calem rested both palms against the balcony table.
“Are you okay? You look awful.”
Jorge offered a reassuring pat on Calem’s hand, but Calem flinched and pulled his hand away.
“I’m fine. I thought I’d imagined it.”
Calem played with the paper napkin.
“In the dream I agreed to return to him.”
Jorge shook his head.
“Calem, stop right there! Let’s go for a walk. I’ve lost my appetite. Let’s get out of this flat.”
Calem reached over the table and lit one of Jorge’s cigarettes.
“That bad, eh?”
“Yes, that bad.”
“I really want the old Calem back!”
“There is no Calem, only Zuul!”
As soon as Calem inhaled, he coughed at the cigarette smoke.
“Amateur!”
They both laughed.
***
As the lift reached the ground floor, Calem kept hold of the handrail.
“Maybe take it easy for a bit, yeah?”
“I’m fine.”
As the doors opened, he stopped.
“I’ll head back.”
Jorge kept one hand against the lift door.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, go.”
Jorge hesitated before stepping out.
As the doors closed, Calem slumped against the wall.
***
Calem let himself into the flat.
He was ravenous for reasons he could not explain. He walked over to the fridge and reached for some fruit.
***
When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on the kitchen floor with Jorge kneeling beside him. A plate lay overturned near the counter, another broken beside it. Food had been scattered across the tiles. Near the fridge, a glass had shattered across the floor.
“What the fuck happened?”
Jorge steadied himself against the counter as he tried to lift Calem.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Don’t fuss.”
Calem mumbled.
“I’m fine.”
Jorge helped Calem to his bed.
He sat him down and helped him remove his jeans, trainers, and socks. Once Calem was settled beneath the covers, Jorge went to the kitchen and returned with rooibos tea, honey, and lemon.
“So, what happened?”
Jorge set the mug down on the bedside table and dragged the chair beside the bed closer before sitting.
“I don’t know. I was suddenly starving when I got back. Walked straight to the fridge. Then — dizziness. I hit the floor. I tried to stand, but every time I did, I blacked out again. It happened four times before you came back.”
Calem muttered.
Jorge frowned.
“Calem, I was gone for nearly twenty minutes before I decided to come back.”
“You were inches away from cracking your skull on the edge of the table. Do you realise how close you came to —”
He stopped, swallowing hard.
“I know. But that’s it — I think it was Ben.”
Jorge blinked.
“What?”
The old refrigerator clicked on in the kitchen, its uneven drone carrying faintly through the flat.
Jorge’s fingers tightened around his cup. Then he let out a short laugh.
“You’re starting to give me the creeps again!”
Calem did not laugh.
Then, just as he exhaled — a faint creak of the floorboards.
Jorge turned towards the corner.
Nothing.
“No, seriously. I should’ve hit my head against the table. And I missed it four times. How else would you explain it?”
“I can’t. Let’s be thankful nothing worse happened.”
Calem’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the message briefly before swiping it away, deleting it without a second thought. He settled more comfortably into the bed.
“Who was that?”
Calem took longer than necessary to answer.
“Mahan.”
Jorge nodded.
“I thought Amir had been texting you.”
“He did. A few days ago. I’m not responding. He wasn’t happy with the note I sent him. He wants to fix things.”
“Can I see what you wrote?”
“Sure.”
Calem unlocked the phone and handed it across.
“‘Your words are like flowers in a mirror.’”
Jorge read the sentence once, then a second time.
He handed the phone back.
“That’s all?”
“It’s enough.”
Calem slipped the phone onto the bedside table.
“And the other message was from Mahan?”
“Yes, Mahan.”
“Who was he again?”
“The Kuwaiti guy. I met him before I started dating Amir, remember? He must be back in London.”
Jorge leaned back further into the chair.
“Oh, yes, the Kuwaiti prince?”
Calem laughed, shaking his head.
“He wasn’t a prince. He moved in their circle.”
“You never mentioned it — why’d you stop seeing him? He sounded perfect.”
“He was incredibly intelligent, undeniably sexy, and amazing in bed, but he wanted me to live with him in Kuwait for half the year… and…”
“... And?”
Calem shut his eyes briefly and leaned back against the headboard.
“...and he would high-five me after he came.”
Jorge’s face twisted like he had just licked a battery.
“No, he didn’t!”
Jorge’s mouth fell open. He blinked — slowly, unevenly — like his brain was buffering.
“He sure did!”
They both burst out laughing.
“Speaking of eligible guys, what about the Kiwi oil banker? He sounded nice.”
“Oh, Paul. Yes, he was.”
Calem adjusted the blanket across his lap.
“You’ve always had a revolving door, haven’t you?”
Calem laughed and reached for the tea.
“There was a stage in my life where I kept my arsehole cleaner than my mouth.”
Jorge made a face.
“We only went on a few dates, most of which involved walking his dogs in Kensington Gardens. But I knew early on that we weren’t a match.”
“How come?”
“He’s genuinely a nice guy — intelligent, charming, good-looking, successful — but there was no spark in bed.”
“By the look of things, sparks would be dangerous for someone in your condition!”
“Condition? I’m hardly pregnant!”
They both laughed.
After Jorge left, Calem lay down and replayed the dream from the previous night. What he did not understand then was how quickly the body can become a narrator more reliable than thought — and how easily it can lie. Nonetheless, the details remained fragmented and elusive. Eventually he drifted back to sleep.
***
