The Taming of Frankie Carrozza

The Carrozza Season

'You say that he keeps saying "cottage", but is it really a cottage, though?' Iggy asked dubiously. 'Where is it you're going to, anyhow?'
Charlie stopped folding clothes, stared at the portmanteau on the bed, and then frowned in thought. 'You know something, I don't actually know.'
'You're being whisked away somewhere by the boy and you never thought to ask where to?' Iggy slithered up alongside him and nosied inside the travelling bag. 'It might be in your best interests to casually drop into conversation that you've told people that you've gone off with him somewhere mysterious.'
'Oh, very funny.' Charlie took the jumper that Iggy had removed and put it back into the bag. 'I already told you that he said it's somewhere on the coast.'
'Yes, but where?' Iggy groaned exasperatedly. 'Is it in Suffolk? How about Norfolk? Somewhere in Worbarrow Bay, perhaps?'
'I don't know, Iggy. All I know is that it's—one can assume—one of their many, many holiday homes.' Charlie sighed his frustration, which turned into a grunt as he tried desperately to close the bag. To get Perkins out of his ear for a minute, he began to sort books into two piles—one for leisure, one for learning. 'I can't just pluck information out of the very air around me, so stop being unreasonable.'
'I've heard whispers of him staying in stately homes in Cartmel, Selworthy, and Wiltshire, so he could be from anywhere—blown in from some faraway land, even, where one can only get to by going through a magical doorway in a tree. Why are you bringing books? I highly doubt you'll be doing much studying, dear.' Iggy sprawled on the bed behind the bags, a hand in his hair to mimic their dear friend Rose's pose. 'That Seraphina told me a funny thing earlier.'
'Doesn't she always?' Charlie threw himself on top of the bag and began to zip it around himself. 'I thought she was in Amsterdam?'
'She telephones from Paris now,' he corrected. 'Anyway, she told me that it was very unusual for Frankie to be bringing you along with him to wherever it is you're going—especially at this time of year, which she kept calling the "Carrozza season". I was just about to ask her where it is you might be going, but she was dragged back into a party.'
'I agree that it's unusual.'
'Yes, but not for the reasons you might think,' Iggy replied, slowly delivering the words so that they were ripe with dramatic flair that suggested scandal and gossip. 'Apparently, it's because he hardly ever invites anyone back to meet his family and friends outside of Eton—especially at this time of year, she couldn't stress that enough. I'd have gotten more information out of the little rascal, but she was already off her trolley, and then I think I heard a few gal pals invite her into the bathroom.'
Charlie stopped trying to zip the case. He slowly looked at Iggy nervously, who was playing with a Magic 8-Ball. 'Really?'
'Yes, really. He must have made a very good friend out of you during your time together, or it's all some sort of scam and he's going to cut you up into little pieces and swap your organs for even more oddities for that strange emporium of his.' Iggy shook the Magic 8-Ball and winced. 'Oh dear, it says, "Better not tell you now"!'
Charlie laughed and rolled his eyes. 'I wonder what's so special about this time of year—the Carrozza season, I mean.'
'Who knows? That strange boy has mysteries pouring out of his ears,' Iggy remarked. 'You're not bringing that ghastly, mustardy jumper with you, are you?'
'I need something to keep me warm.'
'I hope that means you intend to burn it,' he remarked, rifling through his bag like security searching for contraband. 'You want his parents to like you and not think that strangers just throw clothes at you on the street.'
Charlie opened his mouth and closed it again. Finally, he said, 'It's Frankie's.'
'Oh.' Iggy's eyebrows nudged up his forehead, instantly recognising the clothing. 'Well, it simply looks divine on him. But on you, it purely looks like you're just wearing my big brother's hand-me-downs.'
'Piss off.' Charlie shoved it back into the bag—not to ever wear it, for he didn't feel worthy of the royalty, but because he wanted to bring it everywhere with him.
'So, you love the boy now?' Iggy sniffed as he folded a t-shirt, carefully repacking his reopened trunk like a mother about to send her son off to university.
'Yes.' Charlie looked over his head and out the window. 'Though, I feel I always have and always will a little bit.'
'You do, do you? How do you know?' Once he'd opened the window to smoke out of it, he asked sternly, 'Didn't you heed Seraphina's advice on love? She is the doyen master on the topic, after all—people fall in love with her all the time. I think you like that he gives you a secret, and it's the thrill of having a secret of your very own that is enticing. You'd do well to remember that there is a very fine line between love and fascination, Charlie.'
'When I see him, when I'm with him, when I say his name ... when I hear it, even, my belly feels all sorts of things—butterflies burst from old cocoons to dance around my flowery skeleton, my blood turns multicoloured like saturated fireworks and the world becomes vivacious again like it was when I was a child, and very ferocious dragons flap around my stomach to burn my heart and warm my insides with great electrifying jets of flames. We're all fiery and floral, see. We're all lovely and lusty, too. Sometimes, I either forget to breathe or he takes my breath away. This might sound stupid, but when I'm with him, I feel like I could be better, do better, be mysterious, spontaneous, wild ... attractive, even. It mightn't make any sense to you, but I love him because I love how he makes me feel about myself and I love how he makes me feel about him. Does that sound like fascination to you? Is there really a difference? What speaks more if I talk about his face or his whim?' Charlie slumped into the chair by his desk and leant over the back of it. For a moment, he stared at Iggy's jittering foot and then lifted his eyes towards the canvas that he'd recently hung on his wall. Inspired by Baroque artwork, the painting depicted boys his age in the times—so he believed—of the horse and cart and chimney sweepers. Some wore shirts, braces, and tweed flat caps, and some only wore flat caps and underwear that were wet from jumping into the lake. However, most of them were running amok through the fields, roaring, heckling, laughing, wrestling, and dancing through the reeves to silent folk music. When he looked upon it, it made him think of the liberation and jubilation of the youthful heart in the West Country, when youth was a gift and age was the coin paid. Frankie Carrozza had given him it when he'd heard his sixteenth birthday was approaching, and he adored it and the swirly copper frame adorned with bronze leaves, acorns, conkers, pinecones, ivy, and rusty swallows. 'When I'm with him, I've never felt more free—free from our shackles, our chains, our mouths, our minds. I've never felt more like me, like the me I want to be. I feel like I'm constantly running through the woods barefooted, and I've never before felt the sensation of living so absolutely. My heart becomes a harp for him to play the cords in my throat like strings until I sing the song of my very being. I don't know what it is that I give to him in turn, but I—I feel like folklore.' Charlie swallowed thickly as he stared transfixed at the painting, focusing on the boy with bronze skin who wore only socks and white long johns as he clutched to the wooden railing of a bridge smothered in leaves, his body pushing forward and his head bent backward to feel the sun and dangle over a brook. 'It might sound insane, but I ... but I don't care what becomes of my soul anymore. What of it if I'm damned? What sort of place awaits me beyond those pearly gates that won't let me enter just because I simply love? Every Sunday, they preached and preached about it in their gospels. Can't I tell them "yes"? That I do that, that I do love and respect my fellow man—perhaps more so dedicatedly than any other. How can I be condemned for doing exactly what I was put on this earth to do? If such hypocrisy dwells there, I don't think I want to walk that paradisiacal garden.'
'Poppycock!' Iggy said, moving aside on the bed to let Charlie join him by the window. 'It isn't the belief of a higher power that condemns, but the man who wielded the will of his own wish for power when he etched the very first word. This is man's worst urge, his greatest desire, his darkest lust: power. If we had truly fallen from grace, then why let us live such rich and full and similar lives to that of everyone else? Really, if we truly belonged to him, He would have smote us already just as Satan was at the first wicked thought. Mind you, I always wondered why Lucifer would punish us for being corrupt. Judging by his standards, oughtn't we be rewarded for having sinful thoughts about flesh? It is man that kills, destroys, and wages wars over a book written in his hand. Considering that men are the most dishonest creatures, I highly doubt that it's word for word; the direct link between divinity and mortality could have easily been tampered with, distorting the words of the Almighty by the views of the dark-hearted prejudice who decided to forge the world how he sees fit rather than how He saw fit. We were made, Charlie, and doesn't it say that all of His creations are worthy of His love? I doubt you'll need to beg the Almighty for mercy. Since we were born in the first place, that, to me, is enough evidence that we ought to exist and that we belong in this world as I also doubt He makes mistakes. Think about every single system in place—even Eton, any government, and the British royal family. It's all about who gets into power first by chance—or, rather, by systematical and heretical hierarchy. These systematic set-ups somehow allows mankind to use his own convictions to do what he wishes—to rule over another human, even. However he got the right to shape the circumstances, lives, paths, and rights of others as if they belonged to him is beyond me. They think they're the elite prefects of the world.' Iggy shrugged his shoulders as he put a cigarette to his lips, jutting an angry thin chin. 'Besides, dear, everyone knows that people like us will just create our own version of Heaven, and it'll be all the more fun.'
'Don't you ever get furious?' Charlie whispered. 'How could another dare speak against or for us and steal our voices? It's sickening. Maddening, even.'
'Nobody cares about us, Charlie. Despite it being 1983, we might as well still be mongrels. Even though I've been hearing whispers of us dying in the ditches unloved, all of our screams for a little bit of mercy are lost in the deafening din. Instead, they paint us as villains in their plays and programmes to keep away compassion.' Iggy sighed and shook his head. 'It isn't silly that you love him, Charlie. It's silly that you told him you do.'
'Why shouldn't I have?' he fretted. 'Isn't it a nice thing to hear?'
'Perhaps, for some. But for Frankie Carrozza, the boy with a curse, it's only an invitation to that malediction.'
'That curse is probably absolute bollocks,' Charlie scoffed.
'Tell that to Max Mayvolu's ghost when you're alone in the dark.' Iggy shrugged his eyebrows. 'Even I feel a sense of dread and unease when I walk around Eton, imagining his sad, dead eyes watching me from the classroom windows. Now, Frankie having a hand in that dire affair is only poor hearsay, but where there's trouble at the heart of these old grounds, that boy always seems to be in the mouth of it.'
'For goodness' sake, Iggy, listen to yourself! What sort of boy has a curse outside of a fairy tale?'
'The type of boy who vanishes come winter.' Iggy smirked knowingly. 'Since when have you stopped believing in fairy tales? Even your very idea of love is as idealised as a fairy tale.'
'What's so terrible about believing in a happy ending?' Charlie stated rhetorically, fidgeting with the bag's zipper so that he didn't have to look Iggy in the eye. Perkins was being very odd, he thought, as usually he'd have flung about dramatically, pirouetting in a circle with his hands over his heart and demanding to hear every little detail and bellowing until he did. 'Princesses are saved, princes are glorified, and good triumphs over evil. Tell me the truth, why can't there be a modern version?'
'Because there's real grimness in modern society,' Iggy vowed. 'You'd be doing yourself a favour by falling in love with two people at the same time to save yourself the heartache.'
'That sounds an awful lot like doubling it, and an awful lot like the same radical outlook that Seraphina has—a free-spirited, free love, bohemian, and holistic lifestyle. Anyway, who said there's going to be any aching hearts?'
'Well, you know what they say about Frank—'
'If you say it, I'll throttle that narrow neck of yours.' Charlie glared at him. 'Give him some credit.'
'From what I know of it, love has never bound one lover to another so unyieldingly, rendering all else around them into silhouettes in a pantomime with only the participants in view upon the stage. There are always things going on behind the wings.' Iggy looked out the window and into the dark streets of Eton. 'Everyone comes with their own terms and conditions. Even you, Charlie.'
'I know that,' he said unevenly. 'I'm not thick.'
'Oh, Charlie!' Iggy sighed patiently and condescendingly, a forewarning of that patronising tone of his that spoke as if it knew more of the experience. 'Your childish views on love have got to change, or else they'll be forced to do so when dragged ruthlessly out of your pretty books one day. In some respects, like fairy tales, love might be both enchanting and grim, but when hand in hand, life and love doesn't always have the wherewithal to begin with "Once upon a time" and end with "And they lived happily ever after. The end", my dear friend.'
Charlie groaned. 'I highly doubt that there will come a morning when I'll sing a magical ballad so that birds and squirrels and other critters will come in through my bay window to do my hair and clean my room, but I can at least still be optimistic enough to hope for happiness in whatever form it comes in.'
'The heart is a complex organ—'
'Why are you saying this to me, Iggy?' Charlie leant back away from him angrily. 'What did I ever do to you to make you want to tarnish something that has barely begun?'
'I'm just trying to prepare you for—'
'For what?' he demanded, crawling backwards away from him. 'The inevitable? The foreseeable?'
'For whatever may happen to arise.' Iggy closed his eyes and shrugged. 'Despite being the central midfielder and captain of the football team, the fly-half in rugby, the captain of the elevens in cricket, the stroke in rowing—might as well be the coxswain, too, for all the use Pollard is—but Frankie still is ... well, he still is a rather strange boy for all intents and purposes.' Iggy sighed and reached across to touch his knee. 'Charlie, do calm down. Listen, I'm sorry. I only said it because he seems as capricious as the weather and you have a heart as honest as a child, that's all. Forget I said anything.'
'Come what may,' said Charlie, 'I'll have you, won't I?'
'And Seraphina.'
'And Seraphina, of course.' He smiled. 'How could I forget?'
'As if she would ever let you dare do such a thing. Have I been chatting absolute rubbish since all hours?' Feeling guilty, Iggy shook the Magic 8-Ball again. 'It says, "Cannot predict now", but that's to be expected. You'd better get going.'
Charlie looked to the clock. 'Christ!'
'Why did you leave packing to the very last minute?' When Charlie refused to answer as he climbed out his window and down the ladder, Iggy continued relentlessly, 'You thought he might not take you in the end, didn't you?'
'Well, it's been weeks since I've seen him properly! Then, all of a sudden, a message last night to say to be ready by five o'clock in the morning. See you on the other side, Ignatius Perkins.' Whilst a slither of night was still in the sky, Charlie hurried bleary-eyed away from Baldwin's Bec and down Baldwin's Shore, dodging the puddles of amber light spilling onto the pavement from bedroom windows. As the mug of tea in his hand gently coaxed the last yawn out of him, he rushed into the main street, autumn-burnt leaves clogging the corners of Eton like rust. He glanced up High Street, expecting to see other boys heaving their trunks into taxi boots and town cars to catch a bus or train, but he seemed to be the only one around. Like a child on Christmas Eve, he hadn't slept much the night before—much too excited and nervous to be able to. When he thought it wouldn't take him and decided to read, he'd fell over into slumber to the lulling melodies of raindrops tumbling onto the window sill. To cure his lethargy, he took another long swallow of his cool tea and then quickened his feet.
The shadows of two boys awaited him at the end of the bridge into Windsor; with a cigarette clenched between his somewhat crooked teeth, the Irishman hopped off from sitting on the parapet as he approached; and the other beside him shouldered off from leaning against it and smiled.
'Hey, ye goin' our way?' Ciarán waved, much more energetically than someone ought to be after waking at daybreak—or, more likely, for someone who hadn't yet been to bed. 'Gives'a sup of that.' He took the mug of tea from Charlie's hand, chugged the contents, and then chucked the cup into the River Thames. 'Are ye right? Are ye well, Chance?'
'Never better.' Charlie beamed.
'Glad to hear of it,' said Quinn, accepting back the rest of Frankie's cigarette. 'We were startin' to t'ink ye weren't for comin', lad.'
'Sorry, I just got held up a bit,' he replied, before he shouldered his bag and followed them back into Windsor. Once his brain properly woke up, he remembered that Quinn was getting a train to Liverpool and then a ferry back to Ireland to attend funerals for three members of his family—one who died of natural causes, and the other two who died due to political upset in the country. Glancing at him warily, he sincerely said, 'Ciarán, I'm really sorry to hear about your uncle and cousins. What a terrible start to the short leave this must be for you.'
'Cheers, Charlie. 'Tis a good t'ing I was headin' home anyway, ain't it? To be fair, I didn't know Uncle Seamus much; I t'ink I was 'bout knee-high when I last saw the ole man.' Quinn kicked a few stones as he traipsed, his cigarette hanging dangerously out of clenched teeth. 'All I really remember 'bout him is that he was as ole as Atty Hayes' goat and could fair drink the cape off Saint Paul. But Conor and Cahir—well, they were the sort of lads to sniff out a bit of trouble now, always rockin' up to the house with a black eye or a busted lip. Just too bad that the troubles found them.'
After they'd shared a cigarette together on Datchet Road, they split apart to head in separate directions—Ciarán to Windsor & Eton Riverside railway station, and Charlie and Frankie to Windsor & Eton Central railway station. Steam rose from drain grates to mingle with the cigarette smoke of a businessman carrying a briefcase, his greatcoat flapping as he rushed inside the station. Before they went inside, Frankie pushed through the few other commuters to reach the newsagents stall and purchase cigarettes and a newspaper.
'We'd need to buy tickets, wouldn't we?' Charlie gestured towards the ticket booth.
'There's no need,' Frankie replied, striding through the crowd confidently enough to cause travellers to redirect around him. 'I've already got them.'
'Oh! Then here, take some money for them.' Charlie dug his hand into the pocket of his tan-coloured parka.
'I'm not taking so much as a halfpenny for it,' Frankie declared, reaching across to lift the strap of Charlie's bag up his shoulder more. 'What sort of host would I be if I made my guest pay?'
'There must be some way that I can settle the score than besides my company?'
'Charlie, your presence is priceless.'
He laughed. 'Where is it we're actually going to, anyway? You said the coast.'
'And I was right to say it,' Frankie replied mysteriously, glancing at one of the tickets to find their platform number as Charlie bought a tea for himself and a coffee for Carrozza.
'Well, that's all well and good to say, but that's all well and good you said. So, where?' he called over the train departure and arrival announcements booming overhead, almost needing to jog alongside to match his strides. 'Well, is it in Suffolk? Folkestone? A place in Norfolk? Somewhere in Worbarrow Bay, perhaps?'
'The coast.'
'Which coast?'
'The one on the edge.'
'Which edge?'
'The edge of the island.'
'Which island? The coast of England, Scotland, or Wales?'
'The coast of Malta,' Frankie casually replied. He didn't bother looking at him as he pointed out where they had to go.
'Malta?' Charlie cried, his tongue aflutter as his feet stopped dead in the middle of the station as though he'd waded through wet cement.
'Yes, Malta,' he remarked, as if it was silly to think is would be anywhere else. Irksomely indifferent as per usual, Frankie took a seat outside to relax and wait for the train to arrive on the tracks, opening the newspaper with a cough and acting as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell and was simply commenting on the weather of Malta rather than the destination being Malta.
'Why didn't you say anything?' Charlie demanded once he slouched bewildered on the seat beside him, disregarding his bag as it slipped off beside him. 'I brought clothes for cold climates!'
'Well, had I mentioned that we would be heading out of the country'—Frankie turned the page—'would you've still came along?'
'Maybe.'
'I wasn't for taking that chance.' Frankie turned to gaze at him, his lips suppressing a mischievous smirk to await the outcome. 'Surprise!'
'Oh, I'll surprise you alright!' Charlie grunted his bellicoseness. Looking ahead, he sipped his tea as the powerful juggernaut of machinery announced its arrival with a loud hiss full of roaring cranks and clanks until the monstrous and mechanical head of the beast emerged from around the corner. The second mouthful of tea burned his lips and scalded his throat, but he refused to acknowledge it—if he was to laugh or smile now, the other boy would know that he was free of fault. Having only himself to blame for falling for the art of his charm, his hand gripped the steel armrest of the bench and he scowled huffily.
'Do you want the funny pages to read?' Frankie asked once he returned to his newspaper, coughing into a balled fist as he crossed his leg over a knee. 'You look like you might need some cheering up.'
Charlie leaned over and whispered something unmentionable into his ear.
'Ohhpp!' Frankie slapped his hand over his mouth, surprise shoving his eyebrows upward. 'That's enough to curl the hair of the vicar from here!'
Charlie eyed the passengers as they fussed over the underskirts and pinafores of their children, waving gloves at latecomers, and dolling out sweets to the well-behaved.
As he rolled up the newspaper and set it aside, Frankie teased, 'Still love me?'
Shoving his bottom lip to the side, full of smiling eyes, Charlie looked to him lovingly—for he could not help it; the eyes spoke words the mouth and heart knew not. Frankie stared back, his cheekbones rising on his rosy cheeks to carve delicate lines into his face, prettying him as the muscles stretched.
'Not on your nelly, mate.' Charlie shook his head. 'But I do love those dimples. They're about the one decent thing about you.'
'You do, do you?' he purred, head resting against the collar of his peacoat. 'They're a deformity, you know.'
'Frankie Carrozza is deformed?' Charlie cried.
'Shut up!' Frankie hissed, slapping a hand over the other boy's mouth and clamping the other behind his head as he quickly glanced left and right. 'If they found out my face was marred, I'd be ruined.'
'You're a circus freak!' Charlie squeaked, muffled behind his fingers. 'The townsfolk will hunt you down with pitchforks and torches—through the forests, in the jungles, over the deserts, and across the stars!'
'If they do,' Frankie whispered as he watched the passengers board the train, 'will you still promise to love all of my atrocious deformities?'
Charlie looked from Frankie to the thinning crowd. 'Every single one.'
'I'll hold you to that.' Frankie leapt up buoyantly to his feet and bounced towards the train compartment. Catching the handle, he swung backwards and ushered him along with the other hand. After the train's air horn disrupted him, he finally called, 'Come along with me, Charlie Chance. England seems but a dream to me now!'
They shuffled through the gangways until they reached the first-class carriages and dived into seats. Frankie set a packet of cigarettes and playing cards on the table between them. Before the train even so much as rumbled out of the station, he had already charmed an elderly lady with vivaciously pink hair and a matching fur coat into ordering six glasses of port for them on his behalf.
When the train horn blasted again to signal departure, Frankie raised a glass and said, 'To Malta! But first, to London.'
As the train trudged through rainy grey countryside, the smoke from the cigarettes of passengers reading spy novels conjured a similar grey haze inside the compartment. The people became fleshy books to Charlie, their stories either untold or uninvented. A bunch of gregarious university students talked loudly at the other end of the carriage, their faces full of laughter and the pure delight of seeing friends again who'd matriculated to colleges elsewhere. As he listened in, he discovered that they'd abandoned their studies for a few days to go on a fishing trip like they'd done in boyhood.
'Here's to Paul Pickup!' one of them cried, toasting the name. 'May he rest in everlasting peace.'
'He's not dead, Wilson,' said his friend.
'No, David, but he might as well be,' Wilson responded. 'Off on the pursuit of happiness until he's worked to the bone.'
'The pursuit of happiness is an undefined quest; it can be anything,' said another. 'For us, it just happens to be pleasurable pastimes like this. For him, it means working until he makes something of himself.'
'Yes, but Pickup has always worked his arse off to get anywhere,' another addressed. 'How long has he been at it, yet he can't spare even a minute to see us boys?'
'That's his problem, Mike: that he had to work for what he wants,' Wilson said. 'His family has never had the means to support his education and so he has always relied on his brain. Years from now, if he wakes up old and grey and successfully somewhere, then I hope he's finally happy.'
'Happy?' quipped Mike. 'Can money truly buy happiness?'
'Well,' started Wilson, 'I've never been unhappy about financial stability, I can tell you that much.'
'Your father owns half of Portsmouth,' said David. 'You've never known anything but financial stability.'
Wilson opened his arms out wide. 'And look, I'm somewhere and able to go anywhere.'
When Charlie looked towards Frankie, he noticed that he was eavesdropping, too. With his head resting on his folded arms, there was a quiet glumness to his stony expression. It soon dawned on him that Frankie was facing his worst fears—of only ever seeing his friends every once in a while.
When he caught Charlie watching, he lifted his head and asked, 'Do you think money can buy happiness?'
'No.' He took a long sip of port and mulled. 'I've never seen any shred of evidence that it has ever done so—especially since my parents have plenty, but the passion between them has become a cold and dusty and emptied room in the middle.' He took another drink and thought some more. 'Then again, I understand that that's very easy for me to say since I have very expensive leather black shoes on my feet to keep the cold of the cobbles from my toes. Though, I'd much rather be poor and joyful than rich and neglectful; I think little is precious and too much seems to make a person disengage from sentimentality. What do you think?'
'I think it's only an estimable advantage,' Frankie said, confirming Charlie's suspicions that this was where they disagreed. The other boy bought eminence and omnipotence with his wealth and sold it with looks and allure to utilise them to the best of his ability. 'In saying that, I often wonder if you'll become terribly bored and unfulfilled when you have everything you've ever wished for.'
'Poor Pickup,' Charlie commented. 'He reminds me of Ciarán Quinn.'
'Ciarán Quinn has everything he has ever needed,' said Frankie. 'Having everything he has ever wanted has never moved him much.'
They tried their hand at a game of poker with cigarettes as the pool, but swiftly abandoned it when the game proved Charlie's laugh was a tell and Frankie's poker face was much too talented to contend with. Instead, they smoked cigarettes and made games out of the faces around them as rain pelted upon the windows.
'The man in the gabardine suit is surely an assassin!' Turning away from the moustached man sitting stiffly across the carriage from them, Charlie took a sip of scotch and opened a window to let out the eager smoke of his cigarette. 'He's on his way to London to assassinate the Lord Chancellor for gross misconduct with funds for foreign affairs. Afterwards, he's been contracted to eliminate a threat in the Soviet Union.'
'We must be very careful because I'm certain his cravat is really a switchblade!' whispered Frankie, slowly turning around to glance over his shoulder at the man before he leaned closer towards Charlie with his head in his arms like an agent of espionage about to tell him government secrets, certain of his own imminent murder. He then nodded towards a pale man with long straight black hair, hidden in shadow behind the window. 'That one over there, the one hiding from the sunlight, is a centuries-old vampire—a direct descendant from Dracula, some say. The handsome sword swallower from Berlin has spent the last fifty years hunting his own fledglings and staking the legion, and is now on his way to Prague to recruit the brother and sisters that he once sired—a beautiful French aristocrat whom he turned during the Renaissance and rebellions, a gorgeous gypsy princess whom he discovered dancing the streets of Budapest centuries ago, and a pretty Italian scholar whom he took on the steps of the Vatican the night after he found his fangs.'
Charlie chuckled. 'How oddly specific.'
'I borrowed that one, somewhat—actually, I practically lived it.' Frankie smiled just as oddly. 'Don't you remember The Dying and the Dining of the Revellers? I'm sure you were at Eton at the time.'
'Wasn't that the school play that Trevor Hamilton put on ages ago?' Charlie frowned. 'If I remember rightly, it caused quite the sensational stir. But what's that got to do with—'
'Toss me a cigarette,' said Frankie, pulling his glass closer and burping into his fist. 'I think there's a packet in my peacoat.'
'I thought we'd smoked the last one half an hour ago,' Charlie replied, looking up to see London approach as he fished inside the navy coat.
The alcohol in his belly made him want to kiss him for his mysteries, and the need was satisfied when they both snuck off to the bathroom once the train tunnelled through darkness and in through the city suburbs. Once they'd bumbled, fumbled, laughed, and knocked one another into the sink and mirror and door, Charlie left with another love bite bruising the groove between his shoulder and neck and another vibrant one blooming on his wrist like a violet and scarlet primula. There was a plane. But the train, the train was half of the adventure.
'Your parents are aware that I'm coming, aren't they?' Charlie asked suspiciously once their flight landed.
'Nope. I thought it would be a great surprise for them, don't you?' Frankie replied as he stepped out of the airport, instantly enveloped in heat and sunlight.
'Please, tell me you're lying!' Covering his eyes from the sudden onslaught of bright sunlight, Charlie's mouth plummeted heavily like an anchor. 'Frankie, please! Oh, God—'
'Mother! Father!' Frankie waved the hand still clutching his passport.
A picturesque couple stood by a creamy gold Bentley that matched the patriarch's suit and hat, both outshining everyone nearby. It had to be the Carrozzas, of course. Gilded gold with honey-coloured hair pulled up tight and a hand grasping a clutch bag beneath her chin, the matriarch was simply a divine vision—tall, slender, beautiful, and blonde, making as much of a startling and striking impression as her child did. For a moment, Charlie wondered if she was the source of blinding white light that had caused him to shield his eyes mere moments ago as she fixed her husband's shirt, a man a few inches shorter than his golden wife.
'Darling, I'm bursting with joy at the sight of you!' She pulled Frankie into a long embrace and he mimicked her after she kissed both his cheeks and rubbed her lipstick off them. Then, she took a step back to look upon her son from head to toe and drink him in as if (to use the words of Seraphina) she hadn't seen him in more than a century and a half. 'You look so dashing. I feared the worst after I received late replies to my letters from that place, but they spoke well of you. Oh, my handsome boy!'
'"That place", hmm?' Frankie said as he hugged his father. 'Still haven't come around to the idea of Eton after all these years, eh?'
'Really, what is the benefit of it?' She scowled. 'We could have gotten you the best tutors in the country, or you could have attended somewhere closer and stayed at home.'
'Let it go, Mother.'
'It's a rite of passage for the boy!' his father remarked. 'All the boys who do well for themselves attend boarding schools.'
'Alessandro, don't be patronising. This was your doing after all,' said his mother. The woman was clearly a blood relative of Seraphina Rose; she wasn't as boisterous or as theatrical in her movements as her niece, but she was fluid and graceful and mesmerising to watch—her slight gestures as she slowly trailed fingers through the air like she was cooling them in a stream, holding herself together as if she was made of ice. However, he heard the resemblance more so in the rise of her voice and its familiar tone, and saw it in her hair, her complexion, and her eyes—as emerald as Frankie's. 'All I ever see from that place is the affects of elitism and the lack of egalitarianism.'
Frankie's hand brushed up the back of Charlie's hand as if he was about to hold it before he changed his mind and slid it behind his back to push him forward. 'And this is—'
'You must be Charles, of course,' his mother said courteously with exceptional control over her tone. Her piercing green eyes scrutinised him, a steamy lake layered with algae underneath a winter dawn. Oozing every bit of class and glamour and elegance as her bloodline—but without the grit in Seraphina's glitter—the sun caused her golden hair to glow, wrapped up tight like a silky turban with a hair brooch pinned in that was filled with pearls to match those draped around her throat. Charlie had heard of trophy wives, but Elena Carrozza was an award ceremony. After he'd wiped his sweaty hand against his back, Charlie raised it out to shake her white glove. 'I've heard so much about you in our weekly written letters—or, rather, should I say weakly written letters.'
'Are they both not the same word?' Frankie cuffed Charlie beneath the chin with his knuckles. 'And he prefers to be called Charlie, Mother. I told him that you didn't know.'
'Well, you always did like to be puckish.' His mother smiled.
'But never cruel if he can help it,' his father responded as he stowed their belongings into the trunk.
'No, hardly ever that.' His mother continued to smile kindly, but it never did quite reach her eyes despite her pleasantness. 'Charlie. How terribly modern. There goes the last of the good strong names, bastardised by the youth.'
Charlie laughed.
'Did you just swear, Mother?' Frankie guffawed.
'I most certainly did not,' she vowed. 'If it's good enough for Reader's Digest, then it's good enough for Elena Carrozza to use. Tell me, how was your journey here?'
'Come, gentlemen,' Alessandro said once he shook Charlie's hand. His Italian heritage was blatant in his oaken skin and in the same light brown hair that was splattered with golden specks like Frankie's—prominent in the father, but mild in the son. The main parts of Italy's essence that remained to him was in his name, his complexion, and how he pronounced butcher like "bawcher" and his crudely suggestive way of saying the word "focus". 'Journey's end in lovers meeting. Every wise man's son doth know.'
'Alex!' Elena complained fondly after Alessandro suddenly kissed her on the mouth.
As they climbed inside the Bentley, Alex made a politically incorrect joke, Frankie accused him of trying to sound hip and cool like his generation, and Elena cleared her throat to warn him that he was close to dangerous territory; and it seemed to Charlie that this was a never-ending cycle between the three, a prime capture of the Carrozza season. As they sped away from the airport, the glamour of his mother never dimmed—beguiling, bewitching, beautiful, golden, and icy like sun-touched frost. Although she was very quick to display affection, Charlie noticed something wintry behind her green eyes—the colour of his irises. It never made him feel unwelcome or nervous, nor did he feel that it was directed towards him, but just perhaps that she had a little unhappiness in them, a little longing for something, which made him think of those who'd lost a dream that was possibly once so vivacious, tangible, alive. Despite the faraway distance in her, she was very pleasant, somewhat funny, and life thrived behind them still, but a doused match in comparison to what bonfires might've blazed in them once long ago like the same hellfire fireworks that burns in her child. He saw the evidence of their charred coals, which made her extremely interesting to him. His parents were both so varyingly charming that it was difficult to say whom Frankie inherited his allure from—harbouring his mother's frosty and mysterious aloofness, perhaps, as well as housing his father's fiery passion for ebullience and proneness for laughter, but his own surpassed the pair. They fussed over Frankie in equal measure, adoring him immeasurably, chastising him gently for his wrinkled jeans and his ongoing insistence in wearing jeans, and enquiring about just how much sleep he had gotten and what he had for dinner that week.
As Malta swept by beyond the windows, it looked to Charlie like a mixture of Italy, Mexico, and the Middle East—sand, dead grass, and white buildings cluttered together. As he marvelled at the prickly pear cactus framing the dusty roads, Frankie's parents sought information on everything that was happening at Eton, what businesses were still opened today, who was still teaching at Eton (providing evidence that his father was an Old Etonian), and asking lovingly about Seraphina.
'Is that girl still flouting about so carelessly?' Elena asked as they submerged into a traffic jam, impatient horns blasting in front and behind them. For a country that was half the size of London, Charlie noticed that it was absolutely chock-a-block with speedy, restless cars that took drastic measures in driving. 'I said to her mother that she ought to settle down and move into Empyreal House with you for the pair of you to keep an eye on one another. She's going to give me heart failure one of these days, never mind what she does to her poor father on a regular basis.'
'Do you honestly think that sticking me and Serph under the same roof for long periods of time is a great idea?'
'No.' His mother stared ahead and mulled it over. 'On second thought, best not.'
'That's what I thought.'
'Is this your first time in Malta, Charlie?' Alex asked.
'It is, sir.'
'Well, what do you think?'
'There are so few animals.' As Malta flirted with him on their way through it, he'd spotted a few lizards and a ruby tiger moth, but it was true that there were no sheep or cows in the dry fields. 'It's beautiful all the same.'
'Funny, that's what Thomas first said about it.'
'It's a shame that you can't stay for a few days longer, darling.' Elena sighed deeply as she glanced at her reflection in the sun visor mirror and then looked to Frankie in the backseat. 'If you wish, I could explain the circumstances to that school again and see to it that they allow it?'
'No, Mother,' he replied, rolling the window up and down. 'Charlie and I would need to get back to study for exams.'
'I hate the thought of you spending the winter season there alone.'
'I'm not alone.' He nudged Charlie's shoulder with his own and her eyes shifted towards him. 'All my friends are there with me.'
'But Marigold is due to arrive for a fortnight and she'd loved to have seen you properly; she's been looking forward to it so.' Her eyes looked down to her bag as she rummaged through it. 'God knows she could do with some rest for only God knows where she's been, living her life out of suitcases and airports much like little Georgia Rose—wherever in the world even she may be. My heart grows stricken at the thought of what vagabond our Marigold has been roving around with since she finally ended her relationship with that Robin Beattie boy, thank heavens. Mind you, any suitor is bound to be an improvement from that stentorian schlemiel. I'm optimistic enough to hope that someday soon she'll blossom into a reputable young lady who can attend a garden party without offending most of the guests with her strange notions. Despite her teetering riotous and rebellious disposition seemingly suggesting a change upon the horizon, I still await that day as restless as her feet. Why she feels compelled to go off gallivanting around the world until she comes back looking unwashed and ragged, I'll never understand.'
'Have you ever considered that perhaps Margo is doing this to get away from you, Mother?'
'Well, why couldn't she get away from me from somewhere closer?'
'I'd imagine that would defeat the purpose. How is my dear, sweet, goofy go-getter of a sister, anyhow? I've not heard a word from her since she sent a postcard at the end of October, which said that she'd been to some festival in Thailand and was now on her way to Bali with Gemma and a horrendous hangover,' Frankie said as he clipped the toenails sticking out of his sandals. 'I've been receiving some rather odd—yet, not entirely unappreciated—gifts from other countries for quite some time that have been left unsigned. Weirdly enough, they seem to be coming from places where she hasn't been, and she herself has sworn that they aren't from her any time I've asked. Oh! Maybe I have a secret admirer!' Frankie muttered to himself. 'How exciting.'
'Margo is tremendous, despite nearly getting arrested in Shanghai last month for indecent exposure and vandalising sacred grounds,' said Alex. 'Thankfully, our lawyers were able to sort it all out very discreetly and quietly. She phoned us late in the night on Wednesday to say she'd soon be on her way.'
'Completely unaware of the time difference—or so she says. You give that obstinate girl of ours too much leeway; everything she does is such a delight to you, regardless of whether it's borderline criminal. Some days, I still think we should have let them go on ahead and arrest her to see if it would've cleansed her of her inveterate habits.' Elena gave a sharp tut of her tongue. 'She has you wrapped tightly around her little finger; and she's not the only Rose girl to have such power over you: Seraphina and Georgia Rose wrap you just as tight.'
'All you Rose girls do,' Alex corrected lovingly as he patted her knee. 'Born as wilful as storms, the lot of you.'
'The idea itself is inconceivable,' she said, continuing on as if she hadn't heard a single word her husband had said. 'What sort of life is it to live in which one is so unaware of time differences and sociable hours, knowing only motels, hotels, streets, petrol stations, bus stations, airports, railways, and road signs?'
'A grand one, I'd say,' Frankie murmured. 'Don't you remember what you once called Margo and Gemma and Nate and that lot? Night-blooming boys and girls. I honestly thought that was brilliant.'
'You and your lot are much the same from what I hear. In the pictures she'd sent with her last letter, she had these preposterous feathers in her hair, she was positively caked from head to toe in power and paint, and she looked utterly barbaric!' Elena retorted, ignoring her son's opinion on such a lifestyle and only acknowledging his input with a stern look that feared having to put up with yet another Carrozza child getting into similar predicaments. 'I just don't understand what it is with the young women of the Rose family and all those from your generations associated with them that feel the need to live such wild and rambunctious and nomadic lives. It was absolutely unheard of in my day—that one would not settle quickly and quietly into married lives. I'd like to say that a lifestyle as atrociously uncivilised as such certainly doesn't come from my side of the family; yet, I cannot claim such a thing when you consider the kin born from the blood. Take little Georgia Rose, for example, hitching a ride along with the next hairiest, unruliest, and terribly untalented music band she meets on a tour of debauchery across the world. For a girl who was once so sweet enough to bring me flowers and pretty stones, now all my niece brings me is heartache and tales to chill me to the bone. It isn't at all respectable graces for young debutantes and debutants from prestigious families to present themselves with; our heirs and heiresses appear to be untamed, errant, and wily cats and dogs amongst the ... amongst the—'
'—sheep?' Frankie suggested as he knocked a pair of sunglasses off his brow to make them sit over his eyes. 'Jazz tells us, its devout parish, that we are cool cats.'
'Your generation won't be such frosty felines when you've fried every brain cell in your skulls with whatever godforsaken substance grants you escapism—be it alcohol, drugs, rock and roll music, or television.'
'I'd imagine it would be a combination of all those things and more, Mother. Come now, when you're making a broth, you don't just use water and excuse the spices, vegetables, and meat to try and cook something delicious.'
'Now, I know you're joking about threatening to have experience of such devious things'—she eyed his reflection haughtily and somewhat jokily—'because if you weren't joking and you did have some knowledge, we'd have sewed every orifice in your head shut.'
'Well, you know, orifices aren't only in your head, Mother; they're also in—'
'Don't you even dare finish that sentence, young man,' Elena replied slowly and deadly. 'I'll make your father reverse this car into the nearest pillar and have you replaced with an exact replica before nightfall—as you already appear to be a changeling, confirming every suspicion I've held over your crib night and day.' As Frankie clutched his ribs and bent over to laugh, it appeared that Elena didn't laugh too often as though she couldn't afford the wrinkles, but watched her son with a secret humorous shimmer in her eyes as though she giggled vicariously through him. She looked to Charlie. 'You seem like a perfectly respectable young man that has been raised with good manners, Charles—sorry, Charlie. What are your thoughts on such night-time activities?'
'If it doesn't feel religious, then we shouldn't be doing it before the eyes of God.' Charlie smiled, and he thought he seen Elena's lips twitch into one, too.
'Elena, my love, you are a beautiful hypocrite.' Alex shook his head as though to ward off mosquitos. 'When I first met you, after we both showed up at the wrong address when going to the same party, we ditched it to go skinny dipping in the fountain outside—'
'That's neither here nor there, Alessandro!' she quickly said. 'That was a long, long time ago, long before I had my precious, precocious, and problematic children.'
'Chances are that I'll stumble upon Margo in some bar in Berkshire when she goes to see Gregory, then stumble over her drunken, unconscious body on the floor of Empyreal House,' Frankie replied absent-mindedly as he drew a finger along the pane of glass. 'I doubt it'll be long before she's once again barred from Conkers Mill or Prince Arthur.'
'Well, that would be very difficult for you to do so if she doesn't stay in the apartment, I'm sure, since I know for a fact that you don't frequent any sort of aforementioned speakeasy due to being underage and much too busy studying, isn't that right, darling?'
'Much too right. Precisely, in fact! Me, Mother? Your very own pride and joy, your flesh and blood? Could you imagine the likes of me sitting in some godforsaken pub, my clothes and very scent musky and musty from the smell of cigarette smoke and sacrilegious sin clinging to the walls? Not on your life!'
'Mmm.' Her austere reflection eyed his grinning one. 'It's ridiculous for me to even consider such a thing.'
'My thoughts exactly,' Frankie remarked. 'The audacity of the very woman who served us wine with most meals since we were children.'
'If it's good enough for the French to do, then it's good enough for Elena Carrozza.' As she reapplied her lipstick in the mirror, she glanced at him again. 'You do try to be responsible, don't you? Francesco, I'll not tolerate—'
'Every other day, at least.' He beamed. 'Promise.'
As Frankie's father spoke of the rich history that the city of Sliema was steeped in, they submerged themselves in the wasteland countryside beyond it until a forest sprung up around the car suddenly. When they journeyed down a bumpy, dusty lane, they passed through a set of large gates—silver, embossed with three bright red roses and the Carrozza surname—that Alex revealed was a replica of their entrance back home in England. The large villa slathered its reflection across the car window as they skirted up the drive and around a fountain. Shaded by the forest smothering the permitter of the property as prettily as poetry, every teal shutter pushed back from the windows to rest against the grey stone walls, and every door thrown open wide to welcome them, the old building looked as though it had been waiting many, many years for Frankie's seasonal return.
Of course, Charlie thought as the car pulled to a stop and he looked up at the villa, his home house must be like this—a grand place kept secret in the shade, hidden on the edge of a fairy tale.
A tanned woman with long dark hair rushed quickly out the doors in a maxi dress, fingers touching the brim of her sun hat to keep it on her head. Frankie had thrown open the door of the car before it had even stopped and already had a foot out to rush and greet the gorgeous woman by kissing her on the mouth.
'My boy, my boy, my beautiful boy!' After she'd thrown her arms around his shoulders to hug him tight, she laughed as he lifted her up and spun her around happily. 'Look how grew you are! Come, come!' She'd began to usher him towards the house, before she stopped as if she'd remembered something. Turning back, she cried, 'Oh, Sharlie!' as if she knew him dearly, too. As soon as he'd stepped out of the car, the woman seized him excitedly and kissed each cheek. She then took him by the hand and said, 'You, too! Come, come! I prepare food.'
'Kevin!' Frankie bellowed heartily. 'Kevin, you old dog, you!'
As he was led towards the doors by the stunning specimen, Charlie looked up to see Kevin, a large dog that looked like a Labrador crossed with a golden retriever, come bounding out of the house to jump up and lick Frankie's cheeks, his tail going ninety miles per hour.
'You look as big and as handsome as a lion!' Frankie laughed like a child, moving his face away from the slobbery kisses as he rubbed the dog's belly. 'Has our Aunt Camilla been feeding you human food all week again, my big handsome lion?'
'When in luxury, live luxuriously.' Camilla shrugged, then reapplied her hand to Charlie's back to urge him forward. 'Just a few treats for such a good boy.'
Before they entered, Charlie looked up towards the ivy entangling the old stone so thickly that he could barely see the satellite dish poking through, a struggle between archaic architecture and modern technology. Despite the charming ramshackle face of the palazzo, the inside vestibule was a white marble walkway to Heaven, beautiful enough to make the sun blur the edges until everything looked coated in varnish. It made him ponder the history of the villa, be it inherited by rightful heir or claimed by bloody conqueror. Camilla led him through palatial rooms filled with bookcases and chairs to the kitchen, where she'd spent the afternoon laying a huge spread. Frankie had abandoned them to run riot around the house with Kevin at his heels. By the time he'd got back to meet them in the kitchen, he was both breathless and exuberant.
Dead chuffed as he nodded and looked around the kitchen wistfully, he panted, 'You know something? Now that I'm here, it's good to be back.'
'Tell me, Sharlie, how did you meet my nephew?' As she bit into a spicy chorizo sausage, Camilla poured herself a glass of wine. It became very clear in her Italian accent that Alessandro was sent to England at a very young age for boarding school, whereas Camilla was not. 'Do you go to same school? Are you ... study buddies?'
With a mouth full of salmon and feta cheese stuffed into a pretzel sandwich, Charlie started to laugh until he nearly choked.
'Badness! From doing badness!' his aunt suspected, laughing heartily as she lit a cigarette and bent over the kitchen island.
'Detention. We met in detention,' said Frankie, keeping an eye out for his parents as he stole a puff of her cigarette once she offered it. When she frowned her confusion, he hopped onto the kitchen trolley with a handful of pastizzi and explained what detention was in Italian.
Camilla regarded Charlie. 'Is there anything you would like to see while here, Sharlie?'
He quickly swallowed his food. 'Since Frankie told me all of his favourite parts of Malta, I actually wouldn't mind seeing the Azure Window.'
'Beautiful swim.' Camilla nodded her approval. 'Such a heavenly experience it is to swim under the arch. We will take the boat to Gozo and make a day of it!'
'They'll be taking that boat nowhere if Frankie is behind the wheel of it. The Chances will mourn forever if they take any extravagant chances,' Elena said as she entered the kitchen. 'They dare danger, my children; whatever it is about them, no matter the consequences, curiosity draws them towards death.'
'I will be there to chaperone.' Camilla flipped her long dark hair around and winked. 'I will keep an eye on the boys.'
'When have you ever been anything but an encouragement for mischief?' Elena remarked. 'For goodness' sake, it took me years to get them to eat tomato soup again after you told them it was blood. Don't even get me started on all the bones they've broken because you told them to jump.'
'Scars are a map to the soul, Elena, and souls need adventure to shine.'
'You'll have the souls out of their bodies, too, before the millennia is through, Camilla Carrozza.'
'I love you, Elena'—Camilla kissed her sister-in-law's knuckles—'but you will not keep them precious forever.'
When he and Frankie took their suitcases upstairs to change into more appropriate clothing, Charlie entered a spare room to find Elena Carrozza checking the wardrobe for fresh towels.
'I'll be out of your hair in just a moment, Charles,' she said as she smoothened the bedsheets.
'Take your time! Sorry, I—'
'I hope you'll enjoy yourself here. Unfortunately, Malta can be slightly cooler and windier and rainier in November. A pity it's one of the milder months when we return here, but alas!' She smiled thinly as she fluffed the pillows.
'I'm sure that I will, Mrs Carrozza. I feel like I've stumbled into a Camille Pissarro painting.' Charlie looked in awe to the large alcove stacked with shelves and books, to the green wallpaper that made him think of old Victorian times in a foreign place, to the rusty chandelier above the white bedspread, to the wide fireplace left in disuse, to the curtains that led out into a balcony, and then to the white wooden double doors that concealed a bathroom. 'It's all as handsome as the day is long.'
'Please, do call me Elena, Charles. I am not too old to ask that of you, I hope?' Elena crossed to the door and opened it. 'My, if you're this charmed by such a little matchbox of a place, then you really ought to bring a spare pair of socks with you if you ever do visit us back home in England as it might just knock the others off your feet.' She pressed her head against the frame, smiled slightly, and then left the room.
As Charlie changed into a pair of green shorts and a pink t-shirt, "Hospital" by The Modern Lovers filtered from another room into his, and Frankie snuck in with it through the bathroom that conjoined their rooms. Hands pressing the doors apart, the slap-happy lad stood on the threshold in a tight black t-shirt and a pair of short black-and-orange paisley shorts, a cigarette hanging from his mouth to coil smoke in the soft shafts of daylight streaming in through the balcony door.
'There he is.' Charlie smiled.
'Here I am.'
'No, I meant the at-home version of you, which is still pretty much just you.'
'Did you think I'd be any different?'
'A little more reserved, maybe,' Charlie confessed.
'Hardly!' Frankie scoffed, drawing in deep on the cigarette as he kicked open the balcony door. 'I am as I am, and their at fault for most of that. Why should I be anything else but true to me?'
Slightly hesitant, Charlie asked, 'Do you think your parents liked me?'
'You suffer my father's poor jokes quite admirably and you made my mother smile, as I knew you would; neither of which is certainly no insignificant feat.' Frankie shrugged as he approached him. 'They couldn't like you more even if you were one of their own.'
'They're wonderful—heavenly, even. They must be so disheartened to have created something as ungodly as the likes of you.'
'Eh, they'll do. They're not a bad pair. Come here, you.' Tugging on the hem of his pale pink t-shirt to pull him close, Frankie tried to smash his lips against his, but Charlie dodged the hand reaching for his cheek. 'Oi—'
'See? What did I tell you?' Charlie jumped back. 'Ungodly. Doing anything like that under this roof would be disrespectful to your parents.'
Frankie pushed his shoulder. 'Then come out onto the terrace with me.'
'Trust you to find some way around it.' Charlie snorted. 'Would you stop looking at me like that!'
Frankie smirked. 'Like what?'
'Like—like ... like you know exactly what's underneath these clothes.'
'But I do—well, the best parts, anyway. Come on, Charlie, help a fella out!' Frankie grinned and attempted to go in for it once more, his quick hands suddenly groping him in areas that caused him to leap up onto his tiptoes.
'Oh, but of course'—Charlie squirmed away from him and leapt onto the bed—'this sort of thing would entice you, the ultimate taboo of doing things you shouldn't be doing with your parents so nearby! How cliché!'
'Fine, you saucy tease. We'll stick to the friendship part of our little arrangement—for now.' He pointed towards the door. 'Come on, let's go reassure my parents that you plan to make an honest man out of me.'
'Honest? You?' Charlie put a hand on the John Atkinson Grimshaw painting above the bed. 'I highly doubt that even I have the power to do that.'
'Never underestimate yourself, Charlie,' Frankie said as he lead him back downstairs. 'It only gives me the opportunity to overestimate you.'
They joined the Carrozzas in the vast back garden. As Charlie sat underneath the rafters on the patio eating lampuki pie and drinking wine, the smell of salty shores drifting from far beyond the trees, he marvelled at the marble statues plotted around the garden like ancient ghosts. They dined alfresco underneath overhanging myriads of flowers that dripped down from the rickety beams as brightly as multicoloured lightbulbs. When they ate cannolis and drank dark coffees, "Dietro Casa" by Ludovico Einaudi drifted out from somewhere inside.
'What is it you wish to become, Sharlie?' Camilla asked, setting her wine glass down on top of a decorated wine barrel. 'What do you ... how do you say'—her hand twirled as though to catch the word—'aspire to be when you grow up?'
'Oh, must we start noetic conversations so quickly?' Elena yawned. 'At least wait until the wine kicks in.'
'I—' Unsure who do to obey, Charlie hesitated. 'I don't know.'
'You must start somewhere,' Elena replied. 'What are you, a year behind our son? Two years, perhaps? Boys your age are probably already studying for bar exams, learning anatomies inside and out, or networking with politicians. Pick something, then just nibble on it a little more and more each passing year.'
'That's not exactly true, is it, Charlie?' Frankie said, waving the cannoli at him that he was eating by hand, much to the chagrin of his mother. Charlie flinced when he felt Frankie's shoeless foot travel up towards his crotch underneath the table, immediately causing him to stamp his own foot down hard on his other toes to scare the foot back like a slippery eel. Frankie winced, then said, 'He wants to be a writer.'
'Oh, I love words,' Camilla cooed. 'A tree dies, but books give it splendid, ever-lasting life after death for it.'
'A writer? How fantastic!' Alex beamed, joining his hands together and fixing Charlie with a kind gaze. 'Unbeknownst to us, we might have the pleasure of being seated with the author of the next great English novel this weekend—one to remember, I'm sure! Have you experienced anything you'd like to write about?'
'Maybe, but probably not until with hindsight.' Charlie stole a glance of their son before he looked to his feet again. 'Though, I was thinking more along the lines of ... fiction.'
'Ah, fiction! I'm very fond of escapism,' Alessandro replied. 'However, Elena isn't so keen. Not one for imagination, isn't that so, my love? Bright girl, but not very inventive.' Alex winked at his wife, still remarkably flirtatious after such a long marriage. 'You prefer biographies, psychology textbooks, and self-help books.'
'It isn't that I disapprove. On the contrary, actually.' Her body rotated until her eyes levelled with Charlie's, her wine glass held absent-mindedly by her cheek. 'I think fiction is important work to explore to help developtment—until a certain age. I, personally, have no time for silly fantasies that belong only to the youth. I don't believe you should escape into ink with cowardice to hide what you ought to face with bravery, no matter how ominous or colossal.' Her waspishness dissolved the moment she criss-crossed her cutlery across her plate, but her posture remained austere, her oceanic-green eyes ice-cold. Yet, somehow, inexplicably, her impossible precedence and golden presence was aglow with such warmth, enhanced by the evening light slathering the garden, so much so that one couldn't help but want to seek the source of it if they could only dare tremble across the Arctic wasteland beneath her gaze. She took a sip of wine, rubbed her lips together, then asked, 'What is your weakness, Charlie?'
Taken aback, Charlie felt himself retract from the table, not only startled by how brusque and personal it posed as a question, but also rattled by how absurd it was for anyone to ask, making him wonder if it was a test and if Elena challenged people often to see if they squirmed or to see what they were made of. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and considered his reply for a moment. A part of him wanted to say that it might become their son to take her by surprise, too, but most of him wanted to answer with the truth beyond that because he also believed that thought-provoking topics were usual harmless conversations at their dinner table. 'Nostalgia, I suppose,' he answered. 'I fear the hour to come in which I'll spend my future days only remembering of those way back when in my past—where all my best days are behind me. I fear the regrets it might cause, that I won't do everything by a certain age that I feel that I must, even if I believe that I mustn't. I fear my youth running out too soon, the failure of all things I wish to accomplish left undone like dreams that turn into nightmares, and saying goodbye to all those I consider precious to me. And because nostalgia is the essence of cruel remembrance, I fear that when all my days are done, that something will prevent me from slumbering peacefully in my grave—weary, but above all, utterly complete.'
'What a poignant answer.' Alessandro Carrozza grinned like Frankie and toasted it. 'It offers a tasty and poetical morsel of your potential prowess in literature, Chance. I, myself, am happy to announce that I can say, wholeheartedly, that I have accomplished everything that I've set out to do in my life—may I go wearily, but at peace. We all hope to leave some sort of legacy behind that'll be carried on unextinguished like the Olympic flame, a footprint to say we've been—be it humble or grand, be it great sons or daughters, arts or empires. For now, for the time that remains to me, all that I ask of the Lord is for more fine wine and even finer company until that evermore sleep.' Her husband tipped his glass towards her like a top hat, a gesture that acknowledged her as the epitome of his successes, but Elena had turned her head to fix the cloth napkin over her dress, her lips pulled tight into a thin line. She offered only a curt nod, which may have been the subconscious response of a question she'd mentally posed to herself and had it answered, or it may well have been an automatic reply of critical approval to Charlie's answer.
As darkness drenched the treetops, they drank wine and discussed sports, spoke an analysis of politics, literature, and warfare, if the theatre was truly dead, and of other things that mattered. Terribly fascinated, Charlie watched the mother turn to confer with the father beside her as she elegantly drew a finger across her face and over her mouth, deep in thought and looking towards the faded fresco on the roof of the old gazebo, sitting graciously with her legs crossed as they both considered the replies Charlie had given them when they'd questioned identities of his parents, both wondering whether or not they've ever met them before. They were a watercolour painting of an extremely happy and affectionate family, which Charlie found unusual to observe, an abstract art masterpiece that was unfamiliar and difficult to comprehend. He felt a sense of longing as he watched the mother fix the errant slips of the son's shirt or hair, as she told him news from back home, as she spoke of neighbours and old family friends—of theirs, of his own, of his sister's. Sipping deeply on the red wine to hide his wonder, Charlie marvelled as the father lovingly slapped the son's knees or shoulder when he laughed with him, as he spoke of sailing techniques with him and acted them out, as he informed him on the little gifts he'd found that he'd put in his room back home—toy soldiers and buses and cars, dreamcatchers, vinyls, key rings, radio dramas that he'd recorded on audio tapes. Despite being wealthy enough to buy his obedience with showy gifts, they weren't expensive presents by any means—or necessary items, like those Charlie's mother and father bought him—but things that either they knew he would admire or had reminded them of him.
In the last gasp of the quiet evening still leaking orange light into the darkening garden, the two boys ran into the grass to kick a football back and forth that Kevin was desperate to get at. They abandoned the game for Frankie to show Charlie his favourite part of the villa: an ancient stone plunge pool under the trees. Charlie noticed that an extra slab had been added to the headstone of the pool that had six childish handprints engraved underneath the three names fingered in—Frankie, Marigold, and Thomas. When Charlie bent forward to get a closer look at the old architrecture, Frankie siezed his opportunity and toppled him into the cold water. Laughing heartily, his aunt and father spurred and cheered on Charlie as he sought revenge against their son and nephew, both boisterous boys flinging one another across the grass until they were both soaked. They soon lay sprawled, both thoroughly tuckered out. As Frankie rested his chin on the other boy's lilting chest, Charlie looked back to see that his mother had paused on her way inside, shining in the dusk from her lavish marmelade-coloured dress and classically bombastic hairdo. He felt the curls tickle his throat like the grass under his arms, the very smell of warmth in the air. Her melancholic smile—of motherly comprehension, perhaps—made Charlie shove Frankie off, causing him to grunt, but the mother had already walked back inside.
'What do you think?' Frankie asked. They were both sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet intertwining underwater despite the dangers near by. 'Now that you've seen it.'
'Your family is very charasmatic. To be honest, I'm just revelling in learning about your origins. It's helping me understand you more as I go—word by word, sentence by sentence, until chapter to chapter. To know who you truly are beneath the crown and behind the throne,' Charlie said, his toes brushing the hairs on Frankie's shin. 'It's like unwrapping a Christmas gift deliberately slowly.'
'I meant of Malta.' Frankie smiled.
'It's also beautiful.' Charlie smiled, too.
The next morning, Charlie crept downstairs, drawn by the smells of cooked sausages and freshly squeezed orange juice. When he heard the sounds of fond laughter and small talk over breakfast, his deep fascination with their relationship caused him to pause in the doorway and listen. Through the gap, he could see Frankie's mother pottering around the kitchen near Frankie, who stood leaning against the sink with a cup in his hand.
'Has it started yet?' he overheard his mother say.
Between the gap in the door, Charlie watched Frankie look at his feet and shake his head slowly.
'It's very late. Have you been taking your medication?'
Frankie coughed. 'Of course.'
'Are you sure?' Elena asked. 'It looks like you're not.'
'I told you not to go through my things!' Frankie snapped, throwing the cup into the sink so hard that it almost smashed. 'I'm not so stupid that I've been confusing them with a handful of sweets. Would you keep your nose—'
'Don't start,' his mother said sternly and soothingly. She briefly rubbed his arm, and then handed him a glass of water and some tablets.
After his mother lifted her cup of tea and left the room with a book, Charlie watched Frankie open his mouth wide and fire the multicoloured pills towards it, but they scooted passed his head and out the open window. Beyond it, a storm brewed, dark clouds rumbling with overcast on the horizon.