EN VOYAGE TO TUSCANY - REFLECTIONS AND ARRIVEDERCI
copyright Michael Safdiah,  2000
All rights reserved, Mary

The time finally came for me to get ready to depart from Ricavo.   I’d postponed it as long as I could.  I never made it to Venice or Rome, but they could wait, Tuscany was all I could ever wish for.   I knew it was still a few days off, yet while nothing was said, people were already treating me like a family member they’d miss.  My new friends the Dyckerhoffs had departed to drive north to Switzerland, soon it would be my turn to leave and head for the place I call home.   Passing through other people’s lives as a tourist, a stranger, was about to be exchanged for the real life where I came from.   I began to miss the restaurant, and was glad to be headed there.  I’d have to find my way to Malpensa airport and fly from Milan to New York.  I’d managed to buy a special wide pasta rolling pin, like the one Mrs. Minnetti used, and a few really wonderful local cheeses and sausages.  One, a boars’ meat sausage, was so exotically spiced it had to have come from Sicily, rather than from the Chianti region, but rechecking history and the spice trade, it was a likely bet it was all Tuscan.  Boars are eaten quite often in Toscana.  It never made it to the plane, I ate it before I departed, and had to buy another one.  The aroma of that sausage in my room had me craving it long before it was supposed to be eaten.   I was going to smuggle the food somehow past the customs guys, no matter what.  I’d also packed a special bottle of Classico for the long ten hour flight home.  Flying from Europe to America takes longer because of the jet streams.  Red wine makes me sleep well.

I was relaxing in the garden, surrounded by centuries old stone walls, covered with bright red Bougainvillaea, enjoying a luxurious sunny afternoon and the Italian sun, in contrast to the wet rainy spring we’d had in France.  The countryside was awakening to another year.  I reflected on my good luck meeting and reconnecting with chefs in France.  I thought it odd that I’d never managed to meet any of the great Italians, save for Lorenza De Medici and Marcella Hazaan, neither of whom ever discussed food with me, and both of who are cooking teachers not chefs.  The afternoon was seductive, and I was being lulled into another reverie...

As the summer season was now starting up, and I’d soon be headed home, I let my thoughts drift back to Fire Island.  The image and voice of Ernesto Tenente came to me.  He was the chef I worked for at Fire Island.  He abused me, and practically everyone else.  It was just after my decision to not be a lawyer that I went to Fire Island to work in the summer of ’74.  With some BS, and a confident demeanor, I got a job as his sous. I thought I knew a lot, very full of myself, but according to Ernesto I knew less than nothing.   He was almost right, I lacked practical experience, even though I had a gift for turning out delicious food.   I think in a way he was jealous, and also he didn’t want to let me waste my gift by being lazy.  To this day, I owe him for that.   Ernesto had been a chef on the cruise liners, so he was an expert at efficient use of space.   He was already approaching retirement when I met him, in charge of the kitchen at the Yacht Club at The Pines.   Like most European chefs, he was an autocrat.  He hailed from Trieste, in the north of Italy.   He had a full mane of white hair, wore black-rimmed glasses and had perfect posture.   Quick movements and short steps were his trademark.   He held his head erect and stood tall.   Small framed, he surprised me with his strength and endurance.  His voice was soft, and he spoke in the higher registers.  Tenor.  Most of the afternoons when we were working together, he’d be merrily singing softly, in Italian, of course.  He loved opera.

He knew how to make average food taste good.   He had to, considering the budget he had to work with.   We’d sell pork loins pounded and breaded and have to call them veal.  Ernesto would do some careful butchering to remove the gristle, etc.  The center cuts became ‘Scallopini Picatta’, and the ends were breaded and made into ‘cotoletes a la Parmeggiano’.  All that cheese and sauce, you’d need a forensic expert to tell it was pork.  Everyone, I think, including the customers, knew.  People just winked when the waiter offered "veal".   I promised myself then that I’d never lie to a customer about ingredients.  Ernesto’s in Heaven now, I’m sure, since the ‘veal’ would never have kept him out.

He had been on Fire Island for years when I got there, he was a ‘fixture’ in both the two communities.  In his milder moments he was kind and generous, passing along to me what he knew, but when I’d piss him off, which was often, he’d terrorize me, tearing me apart, attacking my ego, humiliating me and making me feel small.  Little did I know it was the European way of chef-training, but it hurt me plenty.  In all the years I owned The Black Sheep, I never dressed down an employee in front of others.   Oh yeah, he drank a lot, too, so there were two Ernestos.   I miss them both.

It was a summer of my life when I was making ‘life changes’, and had no idea where to turn or which way I was facing.  Typical young man stuff.  Fire Island and a summer job would at least keep me occupied and I would at least have the summer to decide.  September seemed so far away in May, and yet I ended up giving myself so little time to really think.   Most of the summer help out here has that same mentality -- the planning horizon never sees way past the end of the season, and then again we’re among the lost ‘till spring comes again.

My jobs were pretty simple, I was to cook the brunch on weekends, which meant I was up early, and of course, I was also up all night since everyone else was here howling and having a hell of a great time.  It meant dragging a very tired gluteus into a quiet kitchen and starting to assemble everything hoping to get things done before the waiters showed up for their breakfasts.  Fortunately for me, few were very hungry when they showed up for work, which meant constant grazing throughout the service.   My French Toast was fantastic, and it was my own recipe, although I’ve seen it on TV lately, and even Martha has used it.   I managed to get quite a reputation as an egg cook, keeping 7 or so skillets going at once in the rush of Sunday Brunch. I even got a nickname.  You can’t escape from working here without a nickname.   I made blueberry corn bread, even picked the berries from a secret spot I knew of a block from the harbor, also pancakes, hot cereal, burgers (yawn) and did lots of prep work.  I was also to assist Ernesto and stand at his side while dinners were served.  Chef had his own job down to an easy routine, and the boss was happy with him, so innovation or change were ruled out.  Still, I learned a few great dishes from Ernesto, some of which still live in my repertoire, such as his Lobster Fra Diavolo, and his Scampi a la Picata.  I also learned a lot about making the most of what we have, nothing was wasted.  And he stressed organization, something I still have trouble with.

When you teach someone a thing, and they keep it with them, and pass it on, there’s some kind of immortality for you.  Thus Ernesto will live as long as I do, and what I teach will outlive me too.

His shrimp was simple, you dusted the cleaned ones with salt, pepper, dried oregano then flour, fry with some garlic, oil and white wine, and reduce, add lemon, more very good olive oil and serve.  It sounds so simple, yet it works and tastes fantastic every time.  I was instructed to squeeze the lemons so the pits ended up being served.  That way, he told me, as though he’d discovered some great secret, the customers would KNOW we were using fresh ingredients, and "No one ever die from a lemon seed, dahlee".   He called everyone that.  Made it easier than remembering names, I guess.

The lobsters we served were all live, and I was terrorized at having to kill them.  Each time a Fra Diavolo was ordered, I’d have to go to the walk-in and get a few clams a few shrimp and a live lobster, which I would have to kill and clean.  I dreaded it. I do it now, and make a very great Fra Diavolo, but still get sick at the thought of taking the life of a creature I’m holding in my hands.   That summer I also learned the secret of the Monster’s Obscenely Stuffed Lobster, and perfected it by adding better ingredients to it.   The Fra Diavolo had a base sauce made up of marinara with sliced bar olives, celery and onions, and extra garlic.  You kill the lobster as humanely as you believe you can, and toss it onto a heavy pot with clams, mussels, and olive oil.  You flame it in brandy, and let the clams open, bring their juices into the dish, add wine, and some seasonings to heat it up a little, and the Fra Diavolo base mixture.  Cover till everything cooks, and then we’d serve it over rice, mixed with Parmesan, kind of a fake Risotto.   All those flavors, and it worked!   Oh, if you’re wondering, they called me "Skillet o’Hara -- Miss Skillet".  It was fun for a while when the waiters would run into the kitchen and do their Gone-With-The-Wind routine, I didn’t mind, we needed some kind of release.  Working when everyone else was having fun wasn’t easy.  The boss gave me another name, which I hated him for doing. "Priscilla Pancake"  Did I ever tell you I hate pancakes to this day?

One day he made a cup of espresso, and showed me a trick to make it taste better.
"This is what they do in Rome," he said.  "Teach this to your waiters, ‘dahlee’, it will make their tips better."
My waiters?  Even back then, me just a wise ass kid, he knew I’d have my own place.
A slice of lemon peel was held over a fresh cup of hot espresso, with a lit match next to it.   A sharp squeeze on the lemon forced a spray of lemon oil mist to pass into the flame, burn, and land on top of the coffee.  There was a puff of flame.  Very dramatic.  The combined aromas of the burnt lemon and coffee, indescribable.   It was as though someone had showed me butter for the first time.   I taught that to my waiters at the restaurant.  It was great, most of our guests had never seen it before.  When you show a guest something new, they never forget you.

After the second year I had opened the Black Sheep, he showed up one night.  I was thrilled.  I gave him the royal tour, and cooked his dinner.  I could see the pride and pleasure in his eyes.  It was one of those moments where you wait years for that one person who means that much to you, and there you are together, and the playing field is supposed to be level, and yet you know, he’s still the master.  I cooked his dinner, nervous as hell.  He raved.  Hell, I wish he’d had something critical to say.   I felt cheated.

That summer I was obliged to be in Manhattan every Tuesday, and yet be back at the island in time for lunch service on Wednesday.  The ferry schedule wouldn’t permit it, and it was verboten for anyone else to take passengers across.  Such is the monopolistic way of things on the Great South Bay.  That meant you could do it, but only on the Q.T.  Only a chance meeting with a young builder with a boat got me there every week.  After all, I wasn’t a passenger, I was a friend.  Still, I had to board his boat away from the ferry terminal so no one would see us.  He would cross the bay to do his work on the island, and generously took me with him.  At the time Walter was an upstart maverick who saw the opportunities for work at The Pines, and decided to take his piece of the pie.  Why the hell not!  He’s since become a part of the ‘establishment’ and great friend, but in those days we were just cowboys getting away with something harmless.  Those early morning rides in Walter’s small boat are precious memories to me.  The closeness of the water, the slamming of the waves against the hull, the smells of the bay in the morning when the sun shines on it, the glare on the water that  made my eyes squint, the mists.  The energy of a day beginning on the bay, my body waking up and just getting into the feeling of the boat and my adrenaline surging, and all the others who were crossing the water to work on the island.  In short, the joy of just being alive is enhanced by mornings like that.  I’m a water sign and to me there’s great mystery in water.  I can easily see why I’ve made my home next to it.

There was something else I recall about that summer job.  I was unhappy about the staff accommodations.  It was called ‘steerage’, if that might give you a hint.  .   Maybe the name applied when it was brand new, but by the time I got there the term was generous.   It was cramped, damp, noisy, dirty, ill equipped, and generally unpleasant.   I’m sure they imported mosquitoes for the special effect they add to a run down old house.  I also wanted to avoid reminding myself that I was a mere lowly drone-worker here in Paradise.  So I located a fashionable modern house filled with summer renters who needed a houseboy.  It was to be my escape.

It was at the west end of The Pines Community, near the mosquito swamp, a long walk away from where I worked.   I got to stay in Glamorous House in midweek, allocation by musical beds, where one was available, and on weekends I got ejected back to Steerage.   I put up with a lot of things in order to rub what I imagined were the right elbows

These were guys who wrote a check, took a share and came to the island with ‘airs’ and grand notions of how they were going to live, and I was an additional enhancement to their fantasy of enjoying a deluxe lifestyle and being upper class.    At the time I was gullible enough to believe it. Somehow the house, the place, the ‘servant’ all bolstered their sagging self esteems. They drank a lot, did lots of drugs, and thought of themselves as some kind of "A" group.  Trouble is, really classy folks know how to treat the help. You can tell in a second who is and who ain’t.   I’m not judging now and I wasn’t then. That summer was an eye-opener for me.  At the time, I was in no position to judge, and now I realize there’s no need to.  We need to be forgiving in this life.

As the summer progressed, given the weight of Ernesto’s demeaning torments,  on top of working for the share house, my ego was at an all-time low.  I began to hate myself for being there, and had to leave my slave job to devote my energies to my work, fooling around and occasionally sleeping. I was no saint that summer, everyone played.   I won’t bore you with details, the Phantom Orgasm is always so much more than its reality.  It was the summer of ’74, and we were all wild, young and inexhaustible.  No one was there to say "no". It was the year of Richard Nixon’s fall, and of my having one of my numerous continuous mid-life crises, and so I drove myself to exhaustion with anything that might blot out my having to face the anxiety, nay, terror of growing up.

The unpleasantness of the thought snapped me back to 1986 and Italy.  I was now a respected chef-owner of a successful restaurant, with a competent staff, good reputation, a solid and loyal clientele, and a few stars in the times and Mobil.  I had met and interacted with food and wine people all over the world.  I was a member ‘La Chaine’, and a master chef.  If Ernesto was right about me twelve years ago, I’d come a long way since then.  I took a moment to thank God, and to be happy for my good luck.

When the morning arrived for me to drive to Malpensa, the weather looked like rain.  The baker, Mr. Minetti, gave me two loaves of his wonderful pan Toscana, and firmly held my hand and said goodbye, and urged me to return.   I knew he must have known about the pasta lesson.  Anna was there, smiling brightly on that gray morning.  Mr. Lobrano came to see me off as well, and thanked me for my visit.   I began to feel alone again.  The damp chill from the oncoming rain didn’t help much either.  I was again a traveler, a stranger, moving past other people’s lives, but returning to my own.    I am terrible with driving instructions, and often get lost.  There was rain on that dreary drive north, and as I passed Piacenza, the town where one of my early Black Sheep personal assistants had settled, I wished I’d gone there to see if Jeff Railsback was still there. I was surprised at how tiny a place it was.   I saw it from a distance as I drove past, just beyond a large open field, just a few buildings.   Why would he have wanted to go and settle in such a tiny place!  Then I thought how happy I had been in Castelina in Chianti.  The road was soaked, and my rented car wasn’t up to the road and I was afraid to drive as fast as the other drivers on the road were going.   I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to.  It would be a long drive north.  I would drive past Bologna, where I’d dreamt of feasting on hand-made fresh tortellini in rich chicken broth, dusted with Parmesan. It’s one of the major stops for lovers of Italian food.  I never got there.  My Bolognese fantasy would have to be lived out on a later voyage. I was satisfied I’d return some day, and that I’d missed nothing, considering my time in Chianti.   Besides, I took something with me from Chianti that I never would have had in Bologna, the pasta making experience.  The road also took me past Milan, where I never felt I needed to visit.

I bit off another piece of Mr. Minetti’s fresh bread, ate some more cheese, came down to earth, and kept my eyes on the rain-slicked road, frightened that some fast driving Italian cowboy would cut me off and I’d end up in a crash.  I realized I’d be late unless I stepped on it, so any slowing down was out of the question too.

Several hours of driving allowed me to have a few daydreams of Jeff, and the days when I first had the restaurant.  Jeff showed up one day asking for a waiter job.  He’d had no experience, but was absolutely sweet.  He was a male dancer.  You wanted to pick him up and hold him, in fact everyone did.  Jeff was straight, although a few guys must have wished he was otherwise. Jeff was aware of his looks and charms, and also constantly horny. In fact I later learned he managed to keep the female members of our staff happy.  I hired him that day as a personal assistant. The restaurant already had demanded tons of time from me and I needed a Man Friday to do errands, drive the car and do shopping so I could take care of reservations, publicity and administrative stuff.

I still recall the rainy afternoon I hired him.  It was pouring and a chilly spring day so I lent him a favorite tangerine sweater from Paul Stewart.  He told me not to worry he washed it, and returned it two days later, it was the size for a doll.  He’d placed it in the dryer.   Now you can understand a bit about Jeff.  I was fit to be tied, but how could I be angry at him!   Jeff worked in tandem with Len W, who did the books, something I’d later regret, since my trust in Len tempted him to help himself to money.   My fault, I just never audited my people as often as I should have.   Len was brilliant, and did door work at a local punk rock club after hours.  He loved me, and I him.  there were times when I’d be so upset at some silly thing or other I’d lose my temper, and Len, being 6 foot 5, and very strong,  would lift me off the ground till I calmed down.   It was a frightening thing in the early days,  anything might go wrong with the Sheep, and unless I fought like a mother wolf, I was afraid I’d lose it.  The rents kept going up thanks to the landlord’s cost of living formula.  I knew that one day the rent curve would exceed the profit curve, and the business would top out, and we’d lose it and die.   Eventually that did happen.  Bad years and good ones happen, but the rents only go in one direction.  Francis Greenberger is a millionaire many times over, but he’s a poor man, because he’s greedy, and doesn’t know how to give his money to places it’s needed.  He’s poor because he’s stingy, no matter how much he has in the bank. I pity him.    Funny the things you think about in cars on rainy roads, miracle that you don’t crash. Thought trips like that can be a second, or an hour, but the drive and the lateness anxiety were soon over.

When I got to the airport, and returned my car, I was already late for my check-in time.   There was some male bitch petty bureaucrat airport customs functionary who didn’t speak English and who asked me if I had any money with me to declare.  I showed him my Dollars, and my Lire.   He must have thought there were too much of them, and that I was up to something illegal.  He asked me to empty my pockets, undress in a room, and meanwhile he searched all my luggage.  He assumed I was smuggling dollars out of Italy, or that I was a drug dealer.  My beard, Tuscan tan and Mediterranean features may have said "terrorist" to him, I’m not sure.   I was in a panic.  My plane was about to leave, and I had no way of convincing him that I was just a dumb American Chef on vacation.  Another official arrived, this one a supervisor, and he spoke broken English.  This time I changed strategies, and I guess the ‘American’ accent worked, and the ‘Dumb Yankee’ look on my face, red baseball hat on backwards.  Anyway they passed me to the plane which had been waiting.    Their search for smuggled money made them overlook my contraband foods, so I was passed, along with my Tuscan Picnic.

As I boarded, I spotted a lively bunch of handsome young Italian men, all of whom seemed to know one another.  Surprisingly, seats were being taken at random, it seemed, the flight being only partially filled.  I took a seat by a window, and snuggled in preparing for the long lonely trip back to New York.   I was looking out of my window at the enormous Italian Alps, decorated with snow, and their tops, all massive and black.  Till you see them, you cannot imagine how humungous they really are.  We continued the climb to altitude, and I was busily yawning to equalize the pressure in my ears, and thumbing through my small pocket notebook, afraid I’d lose the notes to remind me of my precious memories.

In a few minutes one of the guys from the Italian group sat in the left seat near me.  We had one or two empty seats between us, upon which sat my knapsack with some of my bread and cheese.  He had a big warm smile, his name was Marcello.   From Naples, his buddies and he were the Italian Olympic football (soccer) team.   This is the truth, I swear it!  Nearly empty plane, a ten hour flight to look forward to and a soccer team.  I’m telling you, these things happen to me all the time!

Seems his team mates were making too much noise and he wanted to be in a quieter place, would I mind?  Would I mind, WOOF!  Very excited to be traveling to the US with his team mates for a few games against some other teams in the States.  He was sure we Americans would be creamed by his team, and as it turned out, we lost.  We swapped numbers and he did in fact call before he left the States.  His English was better than my Italian, but not much.  We tried to chat, as passengers do, but when I offered him some of my cheese, his eyes lit up!   One of the universal languages, you know the other one.  I still had one of the Boar Sausages, and a Sopresata, a mini salami-like sausage, but better.  The wine I’d set aside for the trip seemed appropriate now, so that went into plastic cups and we toasted life.   I am going to tell you what he looked like, but first just imagine Christopher Reeves playing young Clark Kent, dark hair, hazel eyes, easy smile, large Roman nose, noble looks, gentle voice, and very touchy-feely. Conversations in some parts of Italy cannot take place without gestures and touches.  There was no question in my mind that he might be gay; I was sure he wasn’t.  It’s just that warm Italian way they have,  ("Mom, meet Marcello") His skin was darker, olive colored like my own.  We ended up talking for a few hours, but then the wine and the altitude got the better of both of us.  He said he wanted to take a nap, as did I, and we lifted the seat armrests to give us room, and the next thing I knew we were sleeping with his head resting on my shoulder.   In The U.S. this would have been breaking some social taboo, but here, with this young Italian, it seemed as natural as when men in Florence walk arm in arm.  Nothing out of the ordinary.   Of course I loved it.  It was the only time since I arrived in Italy that I was close to another human being.

A few weeks later the phone rang at the house on the island.  It was a sunny Saturday June afternoon.  The year was 1986, Ernesto had long ago retired.
"Michealle, it’s Marcello -- from Italy, remember me, the football player?"
I love the way my name sounds in Italian, in fact I melt, and of course it took only a second, greetings exchanged, game scores, and then an explanation of how he could call a New York number and get the call forwarded to me at home on Fire Island,  Even over the phone you could see him smiling.  More explaining that he was welcome to visit.  In fact please, I insisted.  I had invited him when we were on the plane, and he happily took me at my word.  I wasn’t about to extend the hospitality of Coltibuono.  He’d heard of Fire Island (read about it in a book) and was afraid that it might be too wild, but since he had a friend, meaning me... This was one of many Italian sentences which use hand or a face gesture in place of several words.  Bart was away, I had free time, and a harmless visit from a new friend would be great - another way to show off the island.  I believed all this, and I also believed in miracles.

Some miracle got him to call and another one got him to navigate the Long Island Rail Road, the train station jitney and the Fire Island Ferry.   He was at the Pines Harbor the following day.  He looked great, and already looked ‘American’ with up-to-date clothes and even a short haircut.  I was ecstatic to see him.  We went to the Pantry, picked up some bread, peppers, olives, wine, and cheese, and bought a whole Snapper, and headed home.  His full back pack showed he’d allowed for the possibility of an overnight stay.

When he saw my small near-antique Hobie Cat, he flipped, and begged me if it still sailed.  To look at it you wouldn’t think so, but there’s no sinking a 14 foot Hobie, unless you put three people on it, then it’s a floating submarine.  My idea of rigging that boat was a few clotheslines and some hardware store screws and bolts.  But sailing is more about listening to the wind, the weather and the currents, none of which I can change, and finding my way through them.  It’s a life’s lesson, sailing is.  I used to imagine that I was on a raft crossing the pacific, and heading west across the unknown waters toward Tahiti.   Daydreams are so easy when I sail that boat.  Even though I was in a shallow bay, average depth twelve feet, believe it or not, I learned to trust my divine creator, who would always bring me home.   That boat gave me wonderful daydreams.

The afternoon was spent with me sailing, my Giant Schnauzer Nihzee in the water and Marcello swimming and racing the boat.  He and the dog were instant buddies, which is always a sign of whether a human will become my friend.  My recollection that he was Neopolitan was almost right, actually he had been born and raised in Sardinia, and his ability to swim like a dolphin proved out his heritage.   He was even more beautiful in the water than on land.  As I sailed as fast as my leaning against the wind would take my little boat, he was churning the water next to it, and laughing and splashing me.  There was no beating him, and I didn’t want to.  He made eye contact and never let go of you with his eyes.   His olive-dark skin sliced the water, shining as it slipped off of him to show his ribs, and his clearly defined muscles pulling himself through it, and his eyes beamed victorious -- all smiles and joy.  Perhaps it was a time when you win by losing.  For a moment I imagined him as a lean young boy, diving for shells in the Mediterranean.   We shouted and laughed loud, not much bothering who was looking, but the bay is a very large and private place.  Perhaps at being in the water, or perhaps something more, I was already falling into in a rapturous state just from being with him again, and this time he was so much more full of life.

The evening found us dressing the fish, cutting deep gashes into it, and stuffing it with orange peel, parsley, thyme and some rosemary.  Garlic went without saying, and olive oil.  The fish sat on a tray in the pool of marinade for around half an hour.  Marcello was chef, I was the student.  He was, like most Italian men, an excellent authority on food.  We made a small wood fire in the barbeque, and roasted peppers, which we then steamed in a paper bag for a while, peeled and marinated in oil, pepper and salt.  We ate olives and cheese while we were cooking, I found a melon, which we cut, and had with slices of the salami sausage, and he sliced the bread and rubbed the slices with cut cloves of garlic and toasted them over the grill to make Crostini.  These were eaten with fresh slices of ripe tomatoes which I had grown.  Olive oil was generously poured over everything.  We ate as we cooked, picking at the food, and touching, hand holding or hugging one another. Shoulder massages were awarded to the best swimmer.  There was no suggestion of anything beyond cameraderie.

The fish had been Marcello’s masterpiece.  He tenderly removed it from the fire several times to allow it to rest between cookings. The fire seemed too low to cook anything, and I protested, but he smiled smugly and insisted that it would be like no fish I ever ate.  Needless to say, he was right.  By the time we had the fish, we were half way through the wine, and talking as old friends do.  He told me I was already one of his ‘red wine friends’ and we talked and talked.

There was a long, dramatic sunset, and when the red ball, with it’s luminescent shouting noise, had disappeared below the horizon, the real light show began.  Softer, caressing us with an afterglow.   Clouds raced to grab bits from the now below the horizon giver of life, and reflect the special part of the spectrum which was theirs alone to see with each sunset.  I always wished that clouds were places I could walk upon.  The eastern sky was now becoming a deep indigo.  L’heure Bleu –The Blue Hour, before night, when we could sit, quietly, and reflect on what God had shown us.  The wine was getting better.  We put on sweaters, wore shorts, and sat on the edge of the bay, feeling protected against the evening’s chill, and watching the lights come on in the south shore towns across the three-mile expanse of water.

`Yes, indeed he was curious about the gay life and wondered if he would experience it here, and what did I think.  He’d made up his mind already, I knew that.  Given my choice, there was no way he’d ever leave without having that wish fulfilled.  Several days passed, more sailing, long walks, sunsets, home made easily negotiated meals, clams nicked from the bay and grilled with pancetta, breadcrumbs and herbs, hand made pasta, love making, arguments over the relative merits of Ferrerelli water and Pellegrino, we agreed that Pelle was just awful, more love making.

Everything with Marcello was easy.  Never any friction, never a problem.  We made love easily, always laughing.  There was intensity and passion, but never serious.  He was curious, willing to experiment, try anything new, and insatiable.

One morning after coffee, which he made perfectly, he decided that enough was enough, and he told me his girlfriend, a rock singer who lived on Waverly Place, had agreed to marry him.  Thus, he could stay in the States.  I hated her at once.  We saw one another several times after that, but the AIDS scare, which was just starting to panic, nay, rock the gay world, had started.   Marcello was scared literally for his life, and told me one day that despite his feelings for me he would not be gay any more.  He simply chose to not die.  The plague had that and similar effects on many relationships in those days. Some once promiscuous men changed overnight and bonded with men who tested negative, others gave up sex entirely.  Still others gave up any chance of living a so-called ‘normal’ life and allowed themselves to descend into a life of promiscuity, believing they had no chance of avoiding it.  I was devastated.  Losing Marcello after we got of to such a great start was a blow.  It would be impossible for me to have made such a decision as he did.

He vanished for a while, we saw one another a few times after that, but it was strained, I hadn’t yet learned to speak about such things, and he wasn’t able to discuss what it was that bothered him.  I knew there were strong feelings on both sides, but we didn’t have the vocabulary, or the way to break down the barriers of fear.  He’d been on his own most of his life, so he was able to make bonds easily and give them up when necessary.  I never was able to do that.   I miss him now, and wonder how he is, and if he managed to suppress his attractions for me, or for men, as a result of AIDS fear.

I should have blamed Ronald Regan or George Bush, both have blood on their hands. I never voted for either.  I hoped at least they’d have seen that the people of this country deserved a government that would invest money in stopping the virus before it killed too many more of the population.

and I never saw nor heard from him. TO BE CONT’D