Prettyboy

17: Roarin' In The Summer (Pt. II)

As with the click of the tongue, the dialing-in of the numbers was done. A telephone somewhere in the country was ringing, first came the indication of there being a plausible response. Then the tap of the finger on the rose-wooden bench underneath the telephone followed. Pause. Tap on the wood. Pause, then, another tap. The recipient most probably picked up the phone, because the pretty boy afar plastered a smile on his face and began to talk. Was he talking quietly, so as to not be heard by the old lady beside him who awaited her telephone call? Was he talking in a hushed tone, at all? One could not tell from my distance, as I stood, waiting with his bag dangling from my arm, at the hectic and lively airport. Smoke from smokers lurking from every corner; the voices of the people waiting anxiously for the person to arrive; the crying children clamoring to their mothers because they couldn't stand the heat any longer. Airports are an inveterate mess. Yet there stood Gerard, in his own world, talking to someone over the phone hastily, most probably informing the person of his suddenly-decided departure. He moved his hand up to reach the back of his head, and stay there, perhaps for warmness. He threw then a furtive glance around and, thus, I became certain he was whispering. An ephemeral sentence fleeted from his mouth, due to the time allotted. He presumably got a quick response and was gratified, because he hung up the phone with an immediacy. And I thought perhaps he was thinking of me.

He approached, all innocent-looking, perhaps really believing that I hadn't been watching him, and he nodded his head that he was ready to go. We went to look for my mother and Glenn. 

I thought about calling Robert, but I dismissed the thought. He had my address in Bergamo. Other than that, he hadn't bothered making a fuss out of the fact that I wasn't pandering to every New York art magazine lately, as they had been getting on my nerves. Frank Iero this, Frank Iero that, about photography, making a maxim out of my every freely expressed thought. You must be certainly thinking of me as greedy. Well. Perhaps I am, I am unarmed of things to say to defy that statement.

Anyhow, I was indifferent during the flight. Most people are either overwhelmed or enthusiastic when it comes to flying, but I am rather offhand about flights. It doesn't bug me, when the woman behind me smokes or talks to her friend loudly. I do not complain to the stewardess. I don't mind when we enter some turbulence and the plane shudders frightfully for some time. No, I do not wish to crash, but if we were to crash, I would predominantly be the calmest person on the plane. I learned that Gerard supported my attitude as well, though it was only his third time flying, he told me.

We arrived at the Milan Malpensa sometime in the noon. A taxi took us through Lombardy and to where we always used to stop in Bergamo, and we walked to the old Iero residence, which Gerard commentated on, being of the opinion that it resembled a temple, on account of the Doric order that prevailed on the architecture of the house, visible from the facade, visible from miles off. The architecture of the manor was very intricate. The whole point of the manor from the very beginning was to give prominence to the rising sun. When the sun was rising, the building looked best. At night, I used to say as a kid, it looked like it was sleeping soundly. It was all the doing of some older Iero I never had the pleasure of meeting.

A few laughs sounded off as my mother and Gerard conversed while we were following the cobbled path. 

Gerard and I settled on the second floor, in the third bedroom which used to be for my twin cousins. Two single beds were placed near each other. Gerard stared at them for a moment in thought and sort of gave me a smile on a whim. We had a rich supper downstairs with Mother, Glenn, Mother's Friends and Co. and made plans to go out downtown. 

After I was done getting dressed—meaning, throwing on a hat, as I usually do—I headed downstairs to the sitting room. That's when I heard music. Soft piano music; I could envision the fingers pressing down the white keys, reaching out for sharps and flats wedged in between. But somehow I thought I could never imagine Gerard producing that music. And walking in, I did see Gerard on the Bechstein grand piano, thinking how little I knew about him, even after nearly two years of knowing, aching and yearning after him.