Pieces of the Sun, for x_disturbed_x
Title: Pieces of the Sun
Author:
life_of_amesu
Person this was written for:
x_disturbed_x
Rating: PG or so
Summary: I was instructed to write a story exploring the relationship between two people of a noticeable age difference. This is what happened, I really hope you like it. Gregory and David, they're about twenty years apart and living somewhere in Italy.
Pieces of the Sun
The room was red. Red like wine swirled in the sultry light of a tavern open to all the shadows of the evening.
A door was open to a small balcony which looked down to a courtyard surrounded by buildings of salmon pink. Ivy crawled up crumbling walls held together by hope and a bit of luck. Most thought it was more the luck than the hope.
Peering down there was a couple dancing. The woman's hair was dark and flung out as she spun around, yellow skirt displaying flowers and vines as she whirled. Spun around, and around, and around in the sun dappled courtyard of piazza tile.
The room held a single bed of white cotton sheets that lay bunched at the end and a single pillow, deflated in the middle, that lay in a heap on the floor, seemingly depressed over itself. A man lay on the wooden floors that held dust no matter how many times he swept. They were soft, worn from years of feet walking over them.
One hand was up in the air tapping out a rhythm that matched the dancers. Index finger pounding out some beat that matched the flow of everything around him, the one finger pounding silently into the air.
His left hand was in his hair, which was black and swept back. It smelt of gel and the cheap barber shop two streets over. The one that was dark green with peeling paint, with the old men left over from some war who gathered in front of it to play bowels and talk - always talking - of life, liberty, and the good ole days. Back when the streets had newspapers flapping down them and the boys would play in dirty trousers desperately trying to learn the lost language of life.
His hand dropped to the side then swept upward so he was half of Christ. Black eyes closed behind square glasses that were too large and sat sideways on his nose.
"Coffee?" Eyes blinked opened and socks, greying and dusty, appeared in his vision - just off to the side and out of reach.
"No." The socks disappeared and the hand went back up tapping to the beat of the dancers below as they spun around on the sun stained piazza tile.
"And there are fishes to be had! Fishes of all colours, from all realms and countries! As much fish as you could -"
"Bread! Fresh from the oven! Baked this morning! Bread!"
"What where you're going!"
"Move outa the way!"
"Oy!"
"Jew!"
"Bastard!"
"Fish! Fish! All colours! All types! Fish!"
"Bread! Come and get it! Baked this morn-"
"Where ya goin'?"
"Mind your step!"
"Did you hear about last night?"
"Son of a -"
"Fish!"
"Bread!"
"Toff!"
"Bastard!"
"They were caught together in -"
"Fish!"
The coffee was brewed to not-quite perfection but was drunk like it was fresh from a presse in Paris. Eyes closed and a sigh was breathed through the nose. They opened, dark and peering through square shaped glass.
Tapping, tapping, tapping, tapping. Followed by swishes of fabric - a laugh or two. Then tapping, tapping, and perhaps clapping. They called it a waltz. It was simple, basic - like everything should be. But anyone who watched them knew it was something more than that. Something more than the twirls of yellow skirts and brown hair. Something more than his hand on her back and her smile arched in that particular fashion. But they didn't say so. No harm came from a waltz. A simple, basic waltz.
"More signore?" The old man by the door of peeling green paint had a pot in hand that let off steam in the already heavy day. The dark haired man shook his head with a pleased smile. His attention was elsewhere, on the green paint of the shop that used to be as dark as the forest that was now bleached from too many summers, or perhaps the bowls, which hadn't changed since it had been started three hours ago. Or perhaps he was watching the flapping yellow skirt on the street corner, or maybe her arms and his legs.
The old man shrugged and turned back to the cool dim of the shop, yelling at someone to not keep the customers waiting. But no one answered, no one ever answered. And everyone smiled; there was never any harm in it, like the waltz, the simple, basic waltz.
"Gregory, you ought to get out more."
There was paint on his face and the one other room in the flat was turning sky blue.
"I go out." He said, wiping it away but only smearing it more. A battle wound of pale blue etched across his cheek. The left one.
"No you don't."
"I get fresh air - watch out." And the brush dropped, splattering both with paint.
"Gregory!"
"David!" They stared at each other till David reached down and picked up the brush. He handed it to Gregory with a look and a smile.
"Coffee?"
"No." And the sounds faded as greying, dusty socks padded onto the balcony for a smoke.
So the evening ended with barely a blink and the smell of cooked fish and fresh bread (it had been baked that morning).
Curtains of white cotton were hung up in the room of blue, between them and the shining sun that sank behind church tiers every evening. Cotton that flapped in the breeze and tangled itself on the black rails that curled and twisted their way up till they met sandy stucco.
David said it was a bit much, a frown marring his face, grey hair in eyes. Gregory said it felt like home, before smiling and turning to the older man knowing that he would get his way.
David went to work, disappeared when the morning was milky white and the only people up were old women hanging clothes out to dry. Lines of undergarments from the fifth floor down.
Gregory woke with the heat of the day, as one of the many clock towers tolled nine. Sheets were stuck to legs and he rolled over, sticky with sweat.
The market was open when he emerged from the building an hour later. Men and women called their goods, screeching obsequious claims into the too crowded streets. He walked along and lingered at one stall, then another till slowly the bag hung round his arm filled and money made its sly way from his wallet.
Off to the side, the right, in the room of bloom was seated a small fridge, stove, and a table. It was petit; legs cut off like Beethoven's piano. The bag was emptied and the fridge filled. A bottle of wine was left in the center of the table.
Silence and he turned around, spinning on the balls of his feet. Arms spread out, arching to the position of an embrace, a simple embrace of indifference. He slid his right foot forward, then moved his left foot to the left. A tap as they touched, then left back and right to the right. A tap. Right forward again as the pattern continued.
The taps resounded in his mind and he imagined them bouncing off the walls. Listening hard he only heard the shuffling of his feet as they swept from side to side. He moved from the makeshift kitchen to the living room then to the balcony and he became a single-man mime to the dancers below.
Slow movements by all three, gentle yet full of a force, one unchecked and unnamed. Suddenly all three bent, the woman backward, skirt askance, the men forward, hair in face. They stayed, till he pulled back, and they followed.
David wandered in as the sun dipped low on the horizon. Outside someone was wallowing in their grief, sawing away at a violin. Gregory was ensconced in the doorframe between the living room and balcony. In his lap was a canvas and slowly a brush moved over it.
"Did you get food?"
The fridge was opened, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling clicked on. Bread and cheese were pulled out coupled with two bottles of beer. Shoes landed in a crumpled heap next to the Beethoven table.
“She’s there again.”
David looked over to see a shaking form on the ground. A woman was stretched over a grave, fingers clutching the dirt. There was silence where sobbing should have been.
“Don’t stare, it’s rude.”
Gregory had stopped and was watching the woman with an intent expression.
“But it’s sad,” he said absently, not paying attention to David.
“Yes, yes -“
“Do you ever think she’ll be warm again?”
“Probably not, now let’s go.”
“David.”
“No, let’s go. It’s none of our business.”
“But -“
“No.”
“She needs wings.”
“She needs grief counseling.”
“Wonder who he was," Gregory said as he watched the old barber pour him yet another cup of coffee, steam curling up ghoulish as a haunted soul lingering at dusk.
"Who signore?"
"The man who died."
"Signore, we all die." A flutter and green paint floated to the ground. The bowls game continued with a soft crack.
"We do, I suppose."
"There used to be, well back in the war. My father owned this shop signore, and his father before him, but when my father owned it the war hit. Hit hard and fast and hurt a lot. Where you're sitting, well the table's always been there - used to sit there myself when I was younger - but some soldier's used to sit there. German soldiers, officers signoree. Important men my father said.
"Well one day they were sitting there and talking. One started a story of how when he was young there was an apple tree in his backyard. Every day he and his brother would race to the top to pick the ripest apples then shimmy down and eat them, getting their hands sticky with the juice. He said it with a smile, fond of the memory my father said. He said he and his brother would then take the cores to the river and throw them as far as they could, his brother always won. His brother always won. And his smile tightened, my father said, tightened so he was squinting and suddenly his coffee became really interesting."
"Huh."
"A few weeks later they said it was going to be over, rumor said they were all going home. My father remembered how they smiled when they said that and how they shook his hands and thanked him for everything. Then…
Then a man, look over there signore, see the bakery? See the alleyway with the brick showing through the red stucco? With the old ad? Well a man called for help and they went over, he was part of the resistance, grabbed the soldiers and blew them sky high. All three of them. "
"Oh."
"My father saw it all. Saw it all." The old man went silent, his lower lip pushed forward and thumb rubbing circles into the old pot. "Their bodies - and they were going home too. It ended two days later. Announced on the radio. They were going to go home. And the officer said he was going to eat apples with his brother as soon as he got home, then finally beat him when they threw them into the river.
And the man, the one from the resistance. Well my father used to know him." A laugh and he turned around, facing the suddenly cavernous door. "He used to come in for haircuts and my father would pour them all coffee and cut their hair. They had talked together. And the officer lent the man some money for food and the man said he would pay him back but never did. Guess it didn't really matter did it? It's funny…funny…" And he disappeared into the shop, telling someone to not keep the customers waiting.
One of the walls gained a picture. One of three smiling men getting their hair cut. David said nothing when he saw it. Merely stared before taking a sip of wine and going to the balcony for a smoke and to watch the dancers.
Gregory was beside them, hands out and holding some entity he had yet to grasp. They moved in sync, dipping, pausing, and tapping in some movement, some inescapable rhythm pushing and pulling them. Her skirt was orange and wrinkled. It spread out like an oriental fan, brown shoes shown as it collapsed against her knees.
He finished his glass of wine and went back to stare at the lone picture. After a moment he found Gregory's paints and painted a circle of black around it. The brush was left in a glass of water as he went to bed. The wails of the violin picking up, following the steady rhythm of the three lost travelers trying to remember.
A date was written - May 1, 1944.
He watched David come in carrying warm bread and a piece if meat.
"How are the children?" He asked, eyes sweeping from the other man to the picture to the sun and back.
"Charming as usual."
"Hmm." The bread was left on the table, scattering crumbs across a dusty floor.
"Complaining about their essay due tomorrow, on Sartre."
"Hmm."
"Hungry?"
"Hmm."
David watched as he turned from the wall and faced him, a smile forced through his lips. The tapping was missing, replaced with the low murmur of families eating in the courtyard. Spreading themselves over the piazza in the content fashion of the recently placated.
The room was warm, even when the sky was still milky blue. The colour diluted and washed out. The sheets appeared grey and were tangled between legs and arms.
David woke with a start, in the back of his mind there was a dull thumping, a dull tapping. Over and over again, just a tapping and a thumping as he stared at the ceiling. The ceiling with shadows dancing. Just a tapping and a thumping as he rolled over and found he was alone.
Sun arched high over the sky, beating down its heat. No one could hide from it as it sought every nook and cranny. The walls were slick with sweat and the day marched on to the steady beat of seconds.
Windows and doors were flung open in abandon, drapes billowing through as an apathetic breeze attempted to find its way down the streets.
"Your turn." An old gentleman stood, a dented metal badge glittering from his chest, shards of sunlight burning eyes.
David leaned back into his chair, resting the cup of coffee on his stomach. Gregory was stirring his in a melancholy fashion, the sugar long since dissolved.
"Rico's in the lead." David offered.
"Hm."
"You're in a mood."
"Hm." The cup of coffee was stilled and the spoon laid to the side. The old man walked out carrying the dented pot.
"More signore?"
David shook his head, Gregory shrugged, picking up the spoon again. It had a stain from dried coffee, pale brown and looked as if a raindrop had been forgotten and scorched by the passing sun.
The dancers showed up as the day sank to half past three. The crumpled orange skirt swished with each sway of her hips. It was gentle, to the time of a half learned Moonlight Sonata, suddenly changing and filling the air with Entertainer turning everyone's minds to earlier times.
And he wished it was already the next day. Already the next day full of bright colours and whispers loud, full of life. A clicking and it was only three minutes away - that new day. Only three minutes away.
He could already taste the coffee as it scalds his tongue and rushes down his throat. Could already hear the click of bowls and the quiet mumble of the old gentlemen as they said, under their breath, the old tales of war. The ones that hadn't changed since Alexander, Agincourt, Napoleon, and the new war. Even with all its atrocities.
A click and two minutes to go before he could start anew. A two minute cage held him back, one hundred twenty seconds kept him from a fresh sun and a fresh sky over a fresh earth full of old people.
The coffee had made it past his esophagus and was causing his stomach, quite empty, to curl in on itself.
The dancers soon arrived, twirling about on their corner. Turning their turns, making circles of squares.
A click - a minute to go. One minute before the moon fell to the conquering sun. One minute before he would leap from the bed, waking David, and dash off to do something. Something. One minute before it was all over.
A click but he was asleep, eyes closed, breath easy and soft. A breeze floated in, moving the still air about the room, ruffling the curtains and the hair of the two men sleeping.
David was to follow. He likened it to Holmes and Watson - David just gave him a look and took his hands.
They did a round, basic box step. Forward, side, back, forward, side back, and again. Gregory scowled and stopped, leaning against the frame between balcony and apartment.
"This isn't working," he said, hands jammed into pockets.
"You're not leading."
"What?" A shrug was given and a repeat of the same answer. "What do you mean I'm not leading?"
"You're not leading. Just reciting lines. Learn to dance and I'll be your partner."
"David?" It was a long question, one that implied more than was said. "David?" It was said again, with a reproachful look.
"Learn to dance Gregory. To dance, not to recite. Dance."
"Teach me." Hands were offered, pale and stained.
"I can't." Silence and a stare. David's eyes were on the ground before meeting Gregory's. Suddenly the bespectacled man lunged forward, grabbing David by his arms, fingers digging hard through shirtsleeves.
"Yes. You. Can." Barely a whisper and said with heads close together but bowed. Breath just scraping over clavicles.
"Paint it." It was whispered back, hard Ts and cold. Gregory pulled away, eyes wide then narrowed.
"What?"
"Paint it." The same deliberation as before then it was gone, tone normal. "Feel it, give it colours and life. Do that and you will dance. I can't teach you how to do it. You must learn on your own."
"I can't!"
"Why?"
"Because I can't feel it. Teach me how to."
David watched him with a smile and a slow shake of his head, brown hair scattering across his forehead.
"I can't teach you how to dance Gregory anymore than I can teach you how to live,” a pause and shrug. “They're the same anyhow."
The room was red and he was lying on the floor again. Fingers were flat and pressed against the floor by his side.
His tongue peeped out and licked his lips, smearing moisture across them. One hand lifted up and fingers parted so he could see the water stained ceiling above.
A rhythm was floating through the air, a rhythm steady and sure, one he was positive everyone could feel. And his body itched. It was there at the far reaches of his mind. There. Burning with potential and yet he couldn't reach it.
The hand fell to his side with a thump.
“She's there.”
“Gregory.”
“You sound tired.”
“Of your obsession.”
“Fascination.”
“Love.”
“Fascination - there's a difference. One says you are blind, the other says you are cognizant.”
“And you are both.”
“David.”
One day there was a stranger at the barber shop. A man with a round face, brown hair pushed from left to right, and a ready smile. He was from somewhere. Somewhere - somewhere else. And he spoke French but didn't shrug so he couldn't have been French. Besides, he had an accent. Everyone guessed Genoa but he merely smiled and shook his head. Close, he would say. Close.
“C'est tout,” was what he would say with that easy smile and warm eyes.
His name was Joseph. Or Jossseph as he pronounced it.
“C'est tout - la vie, c'est le meme. Le meme jour, la meme chose.” The coffee was drained with no complaint. No face pulled.
“Are you a nihilist?” David asked, moving his knight forward.
“Ah non,” the queen advanced.
“Then what are you?”
“Je suis.”
“You are?”
“Je suis quai je suis.”
“Aren't we all.”
And Gregory wasn't looking at him anymore. He spent his days sitting naked on their bed - it was too hot for clothes - writing. Writing or drawing, he wasn't sure. Perhaps both. Drawing words and writing pictures - it was possible.
“C'etait possible.” And of course Joseph smiled. “Ou, il est cherchant pour sa vie. C'est possible.”
David smiled back as he left the table.
“C'est tout. C'est tout le meme en la fin.”
But he didn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it.
“If I die will you cry with tears of hate?” Gregory's eyes were closed, an open book was pressed into the wooden floor.
“I would cry,” David picked up the book, stroking the cover in thought.
“With tears of hate?”
“No,” it was put on a small chair by an empty wall. “Never with hate.”
“Comforting.” Gregory was still naked, lying on his back, eyes closed and body still. “Do you think I could find life in death?”
“Joseph would think so.” Silence and David was about to leave but Gregory's eyes shot open, focused on a spot directly above him.
“No. You. Not Joseph.”
“Life in death?”
“Through death.”
“Perhaps,” he paused, eyes closing and his legs felt as if they were about to give way under him. “It needs more.”
“What does?” Gregory looked at him. The first time in days and it was an empty stare, a confused stare.
“Our wall.”
“The Nazi wall?”
“Yes.”
Eyes snapped shut and he was gone, back to the rhythm. The repeated rhythm he could tap out, one finger lightly touching the floor beneath it. Over and over and over and over and over and -
Walking through the cemetery Gregory pulled his coat closer to him. The sun was setting, giving everything the appropriate mood of mystery.
He stood by the grave, letting a flower drop onto the ground. He stared, the name meant nothing.
Miklos Esterhase. A Hungarian. Died at the age of forty. The generic epitaph followed.
“Signore?”
He turned around, hands still jammed in his coat pocket, palms sweating in the heat.
“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes not meeting hers.
“Did you know him? My Miklos?”
He shook his head muttering under his breath things that made no sense, excuses, lies, anything to remove her solemn gaze.
“He's...he's a good man.” She said, looking at last at the grave.
“Is he?” But it meant nothing to him, everyone had been a good man.
“Oh yes, everyone could look at him, talk to him, and he would understand.”
“Very...very lucky man.”
“Is he?” She asked, still staring at the grave as she knelt before it. “I've made my peace,” it was whispered as a handful of daisies covered his grave. They covered the flower Gregory had offered in a blanket of white.
“We all have the plague,” Gregory said, turning a lone flower over in his hand. He was sitting between the balcony and the main room.
“Been reading Camus again?”
“I suppose so. He doesn't like judges.”
“Nor did Jesus.”
There were sounds above them, voices could be heard through the ceiling.
“Someone's getting lucky.”
David rolled his eyes and took a seat opposite of Gregory.
“You're horrid.”
“Go to sleep.”
David blinked at the sudden order but didn't move. Gregory watched him then shrugged, throwing the flower so it fell to the courtyard.
David woke the next morning to an empty bed. Sheets were gone and a thin sheen of sweat made his swallow skin sticky and uncomfortable.
Crawling to edge he peered over, his eyes meeting the wood, and the dust, and the piles of clothes. Beyond that lay the absent blankets, crumpled in a heap, thrown there during the course of the night.
“Gregory?” He called, pulling himself up in bed.
“Hm?” It was from the other room.
“What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“The Nazi wall.”
“Oh.”
Falling back on the bed David spread out his arms, a mockery of Christ, and let himself be lulled to sleep by the wailing of a distant violin.
He woke when the wailing ceased and all that could be heard was the tapping of the dancers down below.
Rolling over he managed to pull himself up and stumbled out to the main room. Gregory stood by the wall, staring intently at the picture that hung between a pair of wings.
David walked over and stood beside hi. The men were young, no more than twenty five, thirty perhaps, and each had a bright smile painted on their faces. One was even holding a mug of coffee.
“You gave them wings,” David said, reaching his hand up to trace the white and grey paint.
“And you gave them a halo.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Unity.”
“Would you care to dance?” David asked as he crossed the room, back towards Gregory, eyes focused on the sun sitting in the sky, bathing the decrepit buildings in gold. Turning suddenly he headed back into the bedroom and rummaged around till he found a pair of trousers. Gregory stood by the wall and watched him dress through the doorway.
“David?”
“Hm?”
“Am I your Goliath?”
“In the truest sense.”
“Then you'll slay me.”
“No, I'll teach you to live.”
“Then we'll dance.”
No answer as David emerged from the room, rolling shirtsleeves up.
“Yes. We'll dance.”
Down below a pair spun around, colours mixing as they moved around in a sacred pattern to the sound of a song long forgotten, danced together on sun stained Piazza tile.
~ Fini ~
Author:
life_of_amesu
Person this was written for:
x_disturbed_x
Rating: PG or so
Summary: I was instructed to write a story exploring the relationship between two people of a noticeable age difference. This is what happened, I really hope you like it. Gregory and David, they're about twenty years apart and living somewhere in Italy.
Pieces of the Sun
The room was red. Red like wine swirled in the sultry light of a tavern open to all the shadows of the evening.
A door was open to a small balcony which looked down to a courtyard surrounded by buildings of salmon pink. Ivy crawled up crumbling walls held together by hope and a bit of luck. Most thought it was more the luck than the hope.
Peering down there was a couple dancing. The woman's hair was dark and flung out as she spun around, yellow skirt displaying flowers and vines as she whirled. Spun around, and around, and around in the sun dappled courtyard of piazza tile.
The room held a single bed of white cotton sheets that lay bunched at the end and a single pillow, deflated in the middle, that lay in a heap on the floor, seemingly depressed over itself. A man lay on the wooden floors that held dust no matter how many times he swept. They were soft, worn from years of feet walking over them.
One hand was up in the air tapping out a rhythm that matched the dancers. Index finger pounding out some beat that matched the flow of everything around him, the one finger pounding silently into the air.
His left hand was in his hair, which was black and swept back. It smelt of gel and the cheap barber shop two streets over. The one that was dark green with peeling paint, with the old men left over from some war who gathered in front of it to play bowels and talk - always talking - of life, liberty, and the good ole days. Back when the streets had newspapers flapping down them and the boys would play in dirty trousers desperately trying to learn the lost language of life.
His hand dropped to the side then swept upward so he was half of Christ. Black eyes closed behind square glasses that were too large and sat sideways on his nose.
"Coffee?" Eyes blinked opened and socks, greying and dusty, appeared in his vision - just off to the side and out of reach.
"No." The socks disappeared and the hand went back up tapping to the beat of the dancers below as they spun around on the sun stained piazza tile.
"And there are fishes to be had! Fishes of all colours, from all realms and countries! As much fish as you could -"
"Bread! Fresh from the oven! Baked this morning! Bread!"
"What where you're going!"
"Move outa the way!"
"Oy!"
"Jew!"
"Bastard!"
"Fish! Fish! All colours! All types! Fish!"
"Bread! Come and get it! Baked this morn-"
"Where ya goin'?"
"Mind your step!"
"Did you hear about last night?"
"Son of a -"
"Fish!"
"Bread!"
"Toff!"
"Bastard!"
"They were caught together in -"
"Fish!"
The coffee was brewed to not-quite perfection but was drunk like it was fresh from a presse in Paris. Eyes closed and a sigh was breathed through the nose. They opened, dark and peering through square shaped glass.
Tapping, tapping, tapping, tapping. Followed by swishes of fabric - a laugh or two. Then tapping, tapping, and perhaps clapping. They called it a waltz. It was simple, basic - like everything should be. But anyone who watched them knew it was something more than that. Something more than the twirls of yellow skirts and brown hair. Something more than his hand on her back and her smile arched in that particular fashion. But they didn't say so. No harm came from a waltz. A simple, basic waltz.
"More signore?" The old man by the door of peeling green paint had a pot in hand that let off steam in the already heavy day. The dark haired man shook his head with a pleased smile. His attention was elsewhere, on the green paint of the shop that used to be as dark as the forest that was now bleached from too many summers, or perhaps the bowls, which hadn't changed since it had been started three hours ago. Or perhaps he was watching the flapping yellow skirt on the street corner, or maybe her arms and his legs.
The old man shrugged and turned back to the cool dim of the shop, yelling at someone to not keep the customers waiting. But no one answered, no one ever answered. And everyone smiled; there was never any harm in it, like the waltz, the simple, basic waltz.
"Gregory, you ought to get out more."
There was paint on his face and the one other room in the flat was turning sky blue.
"I go out." He said, wiping it away but only smearing it more. A battle wound of pale blue etched across his cheek. The left one.
"No you don't."
"I get fresh air - watch out." And the brush dropped, splattering both with paint.
"Gregory!"
"David!" They stared at each other till David reached down and picked up the brush. He handed it to Gregory with a look and a smile.
"Coffee?"
"No." And the sounds faded as greying, dusty socks padded onto the balcony for a smoke.
So the evening ended with barely a blink and the smell of cooked fish and fresh bread (it had been baked that morning).
Curtains of white cotton were hung up in the room of blue, between them and the shining sun that sank behind church tiers every evening. Cotton that flapped in the breeze and tangled itself on the black rails that curled and twisted their way up till they met sandy stucco.
David said it was a bit much, a frown marring his face, grey hair in eyes. Gregory said it felt like home, before smiling and turning to the older man knowing that he would get his way.
David went to work, disappeared when the morning was milky white and the only people up were old women hanging clothes out to dry. Lines of undergarments from the fifth floor down.
Gregory woke with the heat of the day, as one of the many clock towers tolled nine. Sheets were stuck to legs and he rolled over, sticky with sweat.
The market was open when he emerged from the building an hour later. Men and women called their goods, screeching obsequious claims into the too crowded streets. He walked along and lingered at one stall, then another till slowly the bag hung round his arm filled and money made its sly way from his wallet.
Off to the side, the right, in the room of bloom was seated a small fridge, stove, and a table. It was petit; legs cut off like Beethoven's piano. The bag was emptied and the fridge filled. A bottle of wine was left in the center of the table.
Silence and he turned around, spinning on the balls of his feet. Arms spread out, arching to the position of an embrace, a simple embrace of indifference. He slid his right foot forward, then moved his left foot to the left. A tap as they touched, then left back and right to the right. A tap. Right forward again as the pattern continued.
The taps resounded in his mind and he imagined them bouncing off the walls. Listening hard he only heard the shuffling of his feet as they swept from side to side. He moved from the makeshift kitchen to the living room then to the balcony and he became a single-man mime to the dancers below.
Slow movements by all three, gentle yet full of a force, one unchecked and unnamed. Suddenly all three bent, the woman backward, skirt askance, the men forward, hair in face. They stayed, till he pulled back, and they followed.
David wandered in as the sun dipped low on the horizon. Outside someone was wallowing in their grief, sawing away at a violin. Gregory was ensconced in the doorframe between the living room and balcony. In his lap was a canvas and slowly a brush moved over it.
"Did you get food?"
The fridge was opened, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling clicked on. Bread and cheese were pulled out coupled with two bottles of beer. Shoes landed in a crumpled heap next to the Beethoven table.
“She’s there again.”
David looked over to see a shaking form on the ground. A woman was stretched over a grave, fingers clutching the dirt. There was silence where sobbing should have been.
“Don’t stare, it’s rude.”
Gregory had stopped and was watching the woman with an intent expression.
“But it’s sad,” he said absently, not paying attention to David.
“Yes, yes -“
“Do you ever think she’ll be warm again?”
“Probably not, now let’s go.”
“David.”
“No, let’s go. It’s none of our business.”
“But -“
“No.”
“She needs wings.”
“She needs grief counseling.”
“Wonder who he was," Gregory said as he watched the old barber pour him yet another cup of coffee, steam curling up ghoulish as a haunted soul lingering at dusk.
"Who signore?"
"The man who died."
"Signore, we all die." A flutter and green paint floated to the ground. The bowls game continued with a soft crack.
"We do, I suppose."
"There used to be, well back in the war. My father owned this shop signore, and his father before him, but when my father owned it the war hit. Hit hard and fast and hurt a lot. Where you're sitting, well the table's always been there - used to sit there myself when I was younger - but some soldier's used to sit there. German soldiers, officers signoree. Important men my father said.
"Well one day they were sitting there and talking. One started a story of how when he was young there was an apple tree in his backyard. Every day he and his brother would race to the top to pick the ripest apples then shimmy down and eat them, getting their hands sticky with the juice. He said it with a smile, fond of the memory my father said. He said he and his brother would then take the cores to the river and throw them as far as they could, his brother always won. His brother always won. And his smile tightened, my father said, tightened so he was squinting and suddenly his coffee became really interesting."
"Huh."
"A few weeks later they said it was going to be over, rumor said they were all going home. My father remembered how they smiled when they said that and how they shook his hands and thanked him for everything. Then…
Then a man, look over there signore, see the bakery? See the alleyway with the brick showing through the red stucco? With the old ad? Well a man called for help and they went over, he was part of the resistance, grabbed the soldiers and blew them sky high. All three of them. "
"Oh."
"My father saw it all. Saw it all." The old man went silent, his lower lip pushed forward and thumb rubbing circles into the old pot. "Their bodies - and they were going home too. It ended two days later. Announced on the radio. They were going to go home. And the officer said he was going to eat apples with his brother as soon as he got home, then finally beat him when they threw them into the river.
And the man, the one from the resistance. Well my father used to know him." A laugh and he turned around, facing the suddenly cavernous door. "He used to come in for haircuts and my father would pour them all coffee and cut their hair. They had talked together. And the officer lent the man some money for food and the man said he would pay him back but never did. Guess it didn't really matter did it? It's funny…funny…" And he disappeared into the shop, telling someone to not keep the customers waiting.
One of the walls gained a picture. One of three smiling men getting their hair cut. David said nothing when he saw it. Merely stared before taking a sip of wine and going to the balcony for a smoke and to watch the dancers.
Gregory was beside them, hands out and holding some entity he had yet to grasp. They moved in sync, dipping, pausing, and tapping in some movement, some inescapable rhythm pushing and pulling them. Her skirt was orange and wrinkled. It spread out like an oriental fan, brown shoes shown as it collapsed against her knees.
He finished his glass of wine and went back to stare at the lone picture. After a moment he found Gregory's paints and painted a circle of black around it. The brush was left in a glass of water as he went to bed. The wails of the violin picking up, following the steady rhythm of the three lost travelers trying to remember.
A date was written - May 1, 1944.
He watched David come in carrying warm bread and a piece if meat.
"How are the children?" He asked, eyes sweeping from the other man to the picture to the sun and back.
"Charming as usual."
"Hmm." The bread was left on the table, scattering crumbs across a dusty floor.
"Complaining about their essay due tomorrow, on Sartre."
"Hmm."
"Hungry?"
"Hmm."
David watched as he turned from the wall and faced him, a smile forced through his lips. The tapping was missing, replaced with the low murmur of families eating in the courtyard. Spreading themselves over the piazza in the content fashion of the recently placated.
The room was warm, even when the sky was still milky blue. The colour diluted and washed out. The sheets appeared grey and were tangled between legs and arms.
David woke with a start, in the back of his mind there was a dull thumping, a dull tapping. Over and over again, just a tapping and a thumping as he stared at the ceiling. The ceiling with shadows dancing. Just a tapping and a thumping as he rolled over and found he was alone.
Sun arched high over the sky, beating down its heat. No one could hide from it as it sought every nook and cranny. The walls were slick with sweat and the day marched on to the steady beat of seconds.
Windows and doors were flung open in abandon, drapes billowing through as an apathetic breeze attempted to find its way down the streets.
"Your turn." An old gentleman stood, a dented metal badge glittering from his chest, shards of sunlight burning eyes.
David leaned back into his chair, resting the cup of coffee on his stomach. Gregory was stirring his in a melancholy fashion, the sugar long since dissolved.
"Rico's in the lead." David offered.
"Hm."
"You're in a mood."
"Hm." The cup of coffee was stilled and the spoon laid to the side. The old man walked out carrying the dented pot.
"More signore?"
David shook his head, Gregory shrugged, picking up the spoon again. It had a stain from dried coffee, pale brown and looked as if a raindrop had been forgotten and scorched by the passing sun.
The dancers showed up as the day sank to half past three. The crumpled orange skirt swished with each sway of her hips. It was gentle, to the time of a half learned Moonlight Sonata, suddenly changing and filling the air with Entertainer turning everyone's minds to earlier times.
And he wished it was already the next day. Already the next day full of bright colours and whispers loud, full of life. A clicking and it was only three minutes away - that new day. Only three minutes away.
He could already taste the coffee as it scalds his tongue and rushes down his throat. Could already hear the click of bowls and the quiet mumble of the old gentlemen as they said, under their breath, the old tales of war. The ones that hadn't changed since Alexander, Agincourt, Napoleon, and the new war. Even with all its atrocities.
A click and two minutes to go before he could start anew. A two minute cage held him back, one hundred twenty seconds kept him from a fresh sun and a fresh sky over a fresh earth full of old people.
The coffee had made it past his esophagus and was causing his stomach, quite empty, to curl in on itself.
The dancers soon arrived, twirling about on their corner. Turning their turns, making circles of squares.
A click - a minute to go. One minute before the moon fell to the conquering sun. One minute before he would leap from the bed, waking David, and dash off to do something. Something. One minute before it was all over.
A click but he was asleep, eyes closed, breath easy and soft. A breeze floated in, moving the still air about the room, ruffling the curtains and the hair of the two men sleeping.
David was to follow. He likened it to Holmes and Watson - David just gave him a look and took his hands.
They did a round, basic box step. Forward, side, back, forward, side back, and again. Gregory scowled and stopped, leaning against the frame between balcony and apartment.
"This isn't working," he said, hands jammed into pockets.
"You're not leading."
"What?" A shrug was given and a repeat of the same answer. "What do you mean I'm not leading?"
"You're not leading. Just reciting lines. Learn to dance and I'll be your partner."
"David?" It was a long question, one that implied more than was said. "David?" It was said again, with a reproachful look.
"Learn to dance Gregory. To dance, not to recite. Dance."
"Teach me." Hands were offered, pale and stained.
"I can't." Silence and a stare. David's eyes were on the ground before meeting Gregory's. Suddenly the bespectacled man lunged forward, grabbing David by his arms, fingers digging hard through shirtsleeves.
"Yes. You. Can." Barely a whisper and said with heads close together but bowed. Breath just scraping over clavicles.
"Paint it." It was whispered back, hard Ts and cold. Gregory pulled away, eyes wide then narrowed.
"What?"
"Paint it." The same deliberation as before then it was gone, tone normal. "Feel it, give it colours and life. Do that and you will dance. I can't teach you how to do it. You must learn on your own."
"I can't!"
"Why?"
"Because I can't feel it. Teach me how to."
David watched him with a smile and a slow shake of his head, brown hair scattering across his forehead.
"I can't teach you how to dance Gregory anymore than I can teach you how to live,” a pause and shrug. “They're the same anyhow."
The room was red and he was lying on the floor again. Fingers were flat and pressed against the floor by his side.
His tongue peeped out and licked his lips, smearing moisture across them. One hand lifted up and fingers parted so he could see the water stained ceiling above.
A rhythm was floating through the air, a rhythm steady and sure, one he was positive everyone could feel. And his body itched. It was there at the far reaches of his mind. There. Burning with potential and yet he couldn't reach it.
The hand fell to his side with a thump.
“She's there.”
“Gregory.”
“You sound tired.”
“Of your obsession.”
“Fascination.”
“Love.”
“Fascination - there's a difference. One says you are blind, the other says you are cognizant.”
“And you are both.”
“David.”
One day there was a stranger at the barber shop. A man with a round face, brown hair pushed from left to right, and a ready smile. He was from somewhere. Somewhere - somewhere else. And he spoke French but didn't shrug so he couldn't have been French. Besides, he had an accent. Everyone guessed Genoa but he merely smiled and shook his head. Close, he would say. Close.
“C'est tout,” was what he would say with that easy smile and warm eyes.
His name was Joseph. Or Jossseph as he pronounced it.
“C'est tout - la vie, c'est le meme. Le meme jour, la meme chose.” The coffee was drained with no complaint. No face pulled.
“Are you a nihilist?” David asked, moving his knight forward.
“Ah non,” the queen advanced.
“Then what are you?”
“Je suis.”
“You are?”
“Je suis quai je suis.”
“Aren't we all.”
And Gregory wasn't looking at him anymore. He spent his days sitting naked on their bed - it was too hot for clothes - writing. Writing or drawing, he wasn't sure. Perhaps both. Drawing words and writing pictures - it was possible.
“C'etait possible.” And of course Joseph smiled. “Ou, il est cherchant pour sa vie. C'est possible.”
David smiled back as he left the table.
“C'est tout. C'est tout le meme en la fin.”
But he didn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it.
“If I die will you cry with tears of hate?” Gregory's eyes were closed, an open book was pressed into the wooden floor.
“I would cry,” David picked up the book, stroking the cover in thought.
“With tears of hate?”
“No,” it was put on a small chair by an empty wall. “Never with hate.”
“Comforting.” Gregory was still naked, lying on his back, eyes closed and body still. “Do you think I could find life in death?”
“Joseph would think so.” Silence and David was about to leave but Gregory's eyes shot open, focused on a spot directly above him.
“No. You. Not Joseph.”
“Life in death?”
“Through death.”
“Perhaps,” he paused, eyes closing and his legs felt as if they were about to give way under him. “It needs more.”
“What does?” Gregory looked at him. The first time in days and it was an empty stare, a confused stare.
“Our wall.”
“The Nazi wall?”
“Yes.”
Eyes snapped shut and he was gone, back to the rhythm. The repeated rhythm he could tap out, one finger lightly touching the floor beneath it. Over and over and over and over and over and -
Walking through the cemetery Gregory pulled his coat closer to him. The sun was setting, giving everything the appropriate mood of mystery.
He stood by the grave, letting a flower drop onto the ground. He stared, the name meant nothing.
Miklos Esterhase. A Hungarian. Died at the age of forty. The generic epitaph followed.
“Signore?”
He turned around, hands still jammed in his coat pocket, palms sweating in the heat.
“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes not meeting hers.
“Did you know him? My Miklos?”
He shook his head muttering under his breath things that made no sense, excuses, lies, anything to remove her solemn gaze.
“He's...he's a good man.” She said, looking at last at the grave.
“Is he?” But it meant nothing to him, everyone had been a good man.
“Oh yes, everyone could look at him, talk to him, and he would understand.”
“Very...very lucky man.”
“Is he?” She asked, still staring at the grave as she knelt before it. “I've made my peace,” it was whispered as a handful of daisies covered his grave. They covered the flower Gregory had offered in a blanket of white.
“We all have the plague,” Gregory said, turning a lone flower over in his hand. He was sitting between the balcony and the main room.
“Been reading Camus again?”
“I suppose so. He doesn't like judges.”
“Nor did Jesus.”
There were sounds above them, voices could be heard through the ceiling.
“Someone's getting lucky.”
David rolled his eyes and took a seat opposite of Gregory.
“You're horrid.”
“Go to sleep.”
David blinked at the sudden order but didn't move. Gregory watched him then shrugged, throwing the flower so it fell to the courtyard.
David woke the next morning to an empty bed. Sheets were gone and a thin sheen of sweat made his swallow skin sticky and uncomfortable.
Crawling to edge he peered over, his eyes meeting the wood, and the dust, and the piles of clothes. Beyond that lay the absent blankets, crumpled in a heap, thrown there during the course of the night.
“Gregory?” He called, pulling himself up in bed.
“Hm?” It was from the other room.
“What are you doing?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
“The Nazi wall.”
“Oh.”
Falling back on the bed David spread out his arms, a mockery of Christ, and let himself be lulled to sleep by the wailing of a distant violin.
He woke when the wailing ceased and all that could be heard was the tapping of the dancers down below.
Rolling over he managed to pull himself up and stumbled out to the main room. Gregory stood by the wall, staring intently at the picture that hung between a pair of wings.
David walked over and stood beside hi. The men were young, no more than twenty five, thirty perhaps, and each had a bright smile painted on their faces. One was even holding a mug of coffee.
“You gave them wings,” David said, reaching his hand up to trace the white and grey paint.
“And you gave them a halo.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Unity.”
“Would you care to dance?” David asked as he crossed the room, back towards Gregory, eyes focused on the sun sitting in the sky, bathing the decrepit buildings in gold. Turning suddenly he headed back into the bedroom and rummaged around till he found a pair of trousers. Gregory stood by the wall and watched him dress through the doorway.
“David?”
“Hm?”
“Am I your Goliath?”
“In the truest sense.”
“Then you'll slay me.”
“No, I'll teach you to live.”
“Then we'll dance.”
No answer as David emerged from the room, rolling shirtsleeves up.
“Yes. We'll dance.”
Down below a pair spun around, colours mixing as they moved around in a sacred pattern to the sound of a song long forgotten, danced together on sun stained Piazza tile.
~ Fini ~