Venetian Masks (8 page)

He didn’t get out of bed right away. He’d left a glass of water on the nightstand, and now he drank it, his hand not quite shaky enough to spill onto the sheets. Then he clicked the light on and picked up his Kindle. He finished off the book he’d been reading and began a new one, this one about a spaceship captain falling in love with a not-quite-human mercenary. He got to a really hot sex scene and figured,
Why not?
—he was up anyway. So he had a leisurely sci-fi-themed wank, starring a naked Malcolm Reynolds with a lot of tattoos.

After a long shower and his last remaining granola bar, he checked his e-mail. His boss thanked him for the help and told him the glitch was fixed, and his mother said she’d had a couple of promising nibbles during the open house. A final message said he could buy replica Rolexes at a fraction of the price.

Although it was nowhere near ten, he was still nowhere near a decision. He walked to the nearest café for an unusually hearty breakfast of prosciutto, toast, and eggs. And a double espresso, of course. Italian espresso really was better than American, and relaxing in a busy
campo
as people strolled by definitely beat idling in the Starbucks drive-through.

Fueled by calories and caffeine, he decided some exercise was in order. Back home, he got some of his best thinking done at the gym. He worked off a lot of his frustrations there too. For instance, on that Friday two months earlier when he’d come home from work, only to be greeted by a grim-faced Kyle saying, “We need to talk,” Jeff had sat and listened stonily to what Kyle had to say. And then Jeff had changed to shorts, a tee, and Nikes, and he’d ridden his bike to the gym. He’d used the elliptical and treadmill until his legs were too rubbery to continue, and he’d somehow managed to ride the mile home. By the time he got there, Kyle had thrown most of his own stuff into suitcases, boxes, and Hefty bags, and Jeff hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d just stood and watched him go.

Today’s ruminations didn’t require anything so strenuous, and Venice wasn’t suited to any exercise except walking. Well, maybe rowing, but that was a bit beyond his means at the moment. So he walked as swiftly as the clots of tourists permitted. Taking a cue from the poor guys who made handcart deliveries, sometimes Jeff belted out “Attenzione!” at people who seemed especially clueless about blocking his way. It worked—they’d blink at him and scoot closer to the buildings.

When he wasn’t practicing one of his few words of the local language, Jeff was thinking. About Cleve, of course, and the offer he’d made. Rationally—and Jeff was normally a rational guy—he knew that getting mixed up with Cleve was a really bad idea. At the very least, doing so would end up costing Jeff a bundle of money. And at worst, Cleve would turn out to be a dangerous criminal.

On the other hand, he was really gorgeous.

A handsome face, a muscular body, and hair that begged to be played with were not good enough reasons to outweigh the possibility that the man was a serial killer. But as ten o’clock approached, Jeff still hadn’t made up his mind.

He stepped into the
campo
with the pinkish church. The square was busy this morning, local adults and children dressed up in their Sunday best and chatting animatedly while tourists ate gelato and snapped photos. Cleve was at the café, at the same table where they’d sat the day before. The morning was warm, so Cleve’s jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his tight white T-shirt showed off his inked arms and tan skin. He was playing with an espresso cup, twisting it this way and that between his fingers, and he hadn’t yet noticed Jeff skulking in the shadows.

It was the goddamn tattoos that tipped the balance.

Jeff strode across the
campo
. When Cleve caught sight of him, one of those fleeting expressions flashed across his face—relief, Jeff gauged—before being replaced with the usual confident grin. “Decided you couldn’t live without me?” Cleve asked as Jeff sat down across from him.

“It was a really good dinner. But how about we do this on a trial basis? You show me your best today, and if it works out we’ll do the rest of the week.”

“My best is really damn good,” Cleve responded with a leer.

Jeff serenely folded his arms on the table. “That remains to be seen.”

The waiter came by and exchanged a few words with Cleve. Judging by the expectant look the guy gave Jeff, Cleve had just told him that Jeff would be paying. Jeff good-naturedly handed over some euro coins and then raised his eyebrows at Cleve. “So? Impress me.”

Cleve must have done some planning already, because without any hesitation, he grabbed his jacket, shrugged it on, and led the way down a street that ran crookedly off one corner of the
campo
. The street dead-ended at a canal, but Cleve took them to the left, where the walkway became a sort of arcade covered by the overhanging building.

Cleve pointed up at the pale-yellow stone. “Know who lived here?”

“Venetians?”

“Hah. This was Casanova’s house, pal. Imagine the shit that probably went on right here, right over our heads.”

Jeff looked up obediently, as if he might see ghostly images of the great lover. He didn’t—he just saw stone—but it was still kind of cool to know that Casanova must have stood exactly where they were now, maybe waiting for a boat ride to one of his assignations. “Was he really such a great lover?” Jeff asked.

“Who knows? But he’s been dead for over two hundred years and everyone
thinks
he was all that, so isn’t that what matters? Just think. Couple centuries from now, people could be saying, ‘Oh, you’re such a Just Jeff’ when they think someone’s a real player.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Jeff replied with a snort.

“You never know, man.”

They left the arcade, crossed the canal, and twisted and turned for a few blocks. Cleve waved at a woman leaning in the doorway of an Internet café. She seemed to know him, but he kept on walking. The next time he stopped was in front of a sand-colored building that had an interesting variety of window shapes. “Okay. This famous guy was around long before our boy Casanova.”

“Playing Italian
Jeopardy!
is your idea of impressing me?” Jeff said teasingly.

“Exactly. Don’t forget you gotta give your answers in the form of a question. But I’ll give you this one, okay? This was Marco Polo’s house.”

“Really?” Jeff looked at the building with more interest. It really wasn’t any different from a hundred other places nearby, but he was again impressed by the knowledge that someone famous had stood here centuries ago, had maybe drunk water out of the capped-off cistern right near the door.

“Really. Dude, you just zoomed a few thousand miles in the belly of a 747. Imagine what it was like for Marco: walking all the way to China and back, and without Rick Steves or GPS. Took him twenty-four fucking years.”

“I wouldn’t have done it, if I lived back then. I’d have stayed put.”

“Not me. I’d’ve been right along with him. All those guys who stayed put, who remembers them? But everyone knows Marco Polo, even if only from that stupid game when they were kids.”

Jeff’s brothers had had a good friend with a swimming pool, and sometimes in the middle of summer, when Jeff’s mother couldn’t stand the sight of three bored and restless boys for one more minute, she’d shoo them out of the house, off to the friend’s house to swim. They’d played Marco Polo and had chicken fights and dove for pennies until Jeff’s skin was sunburned lobster-red and his eyes stung from chlorine.

“C’mon,” Cleve said, dragging Jeff out of his brief reverie.

They walked for another couple of hours, pausing periodically so Cleve could point out this house or that. He showed Jeff where lots of renowned people had lived—well, Jeff supposed they were renowned to someone; he’d never heard of a lot of them. Cleve had stories about some of the churches too, like the one where a priest scaled the walls to have sex with the nuns, or the one where the priest was accused of heresy and drowned with a stone tied to his neck. Jeff didn’t really care about any of the famous people or the peccadilloes of the clergy, but Cleve was an engaging storyteller, one who could probably make almost anything interesting.

They stopped for lunch at a place Cleve said had decent pizza, but which he chose for the view. And it was spectacular. The restaurant was built over the water of the Canale di San Marco, looking out toward an island with a domed church. Right next to the restaurant was a little dock where boats came and went constantly.

“Why Venice?” Cleve asked him over their food and wine.

“Told you. Wasn’t my idea.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s here now, so there must’ve been something about the place that appealed to you.”

“Nonrefundable plane tickets,” Jeff said with a sigh. And then, probably because he was finishing off his third glass, he looked out over the serene water and said, “It was my boyfriend’s idea. My ex-boyfriend’s idea.”

“Yeah?”

“He had this plan for a kind of grand tour, right? Probably he was trying to inject some spice into our relationship. We’d been living together for a while. But the spice didn’t come soon enough. He dumped me for another guy.”

“That sucks balls. But any guy who’d dump you obviously has shit for brains, and you’re better off without him.”

Jeff turned his head to look at Cleve, who was doing a pretty good job of pretending to look sincere. “Kissing my ass isn’t going to get me to hire you.”

Cleve waggled his eyebrows suggestively and then chuckled. “I’ll skip making a comment about ass-kissing. I really meant what I said, though. I mean… look at you.” He waved a hand in Jeff’s general direction. “You’re fucking adorable.”

“
Adorable
? Kittens are adorable. Chubby babies are adorable. Little cottages with gingerbread trim and flower boxes are adorable.”

Cleve reached across the table and pinched Jeff’s cheek. “So are you, man. I mean, you have these… wholesome boy-next-door good looks, and you blush, and you’re sort of cutely grouchy, and….” He bit his lower lip. For once, he was the one who looked embarrassed. Although that was probably an act too, Jeff reminded himself.

But Jeff was having trouble thinking straight at the moment, because the skin of his face burned where the other man had touched him, and he could suddenly imagine exactly what it would feel like for Cleve to trace his cheekbones with his broad fingers, to ghost along his mouth and then
in
, and—

“Why are
you
in Venice?” Jeff asked gruffly, very glad that the tablecloth covered his lap.

Cleve visibly relaxed, his usual demeanor settling over him like a well-worn mask. “Told you. I bum around.”

“Yeah. But why here?”

“Dunno. I like it. There’s lots of tourists around if I need to make a buck.” He flashed a grin. “And it’s kind of… in the middle. Easy to get to somewhere else if you want to take off in a hurry.”

Jeff decided not to ask why he’d want to leave so quickly. Cleve wouldn’t give a straight answer anyway. “Is it your favorite city?”

Cleve smiled. “It is this week.”

“W
HERE
are we going now?” Jeff asked as they stepped around a souvenir stand. “More churches?”

“Nope. Some of the churches have some amazing paintings, but I’m guessing that’s not your thing.”

“Not really.”

“Cool. I guarantee you’ll like this.”

Jeff liked to be prepared for things and was annoyed at not having a clue as to what Cleve had in mind, but he grouched in silence. At least it was unlikely that his guide had immediate plans to slit his throat—there were too many witnesses.

They were somewhere near the center of the city when Cleve grabbed his arm and dragged him down a short street with a canal at the end. “Good, he’s here,” Cleve muttered to himself. Before Jeff could wonder what he meant, a widely smiling man in a black-and-white-striped shirt stepped out of a gondola.

“Cleve!” the gondolier cried, reaching out to shake hands. A long torrent of Italian followed, much of it involving glances in Jeff’s direction. Jeff stood uncomfortably and told himself they weren’t laughing at him—probably. The two men shook hands again, and before Jeff could manage an argument, he somehow found himself stepping down into the long, tippy boat.

“Gondolas are for tourists,” he complained.

“Good, ’cause you are one.”

Jeff didn’t tell Cleve that his mother had said the same thing. Instead, he sat on a cushioned seat and noticed for the first time how ornate the gondola was. Although the outside was plain black, the front of the boat—the prow?—sported a fancy carving. There was a large gilded coat of arms thing on the interior, and the bottom of the boat was filled with colorful pillows and soft rugs.

The gondolier took up his stance at the back and began to pole them down a narrow waterway.

“This is the best way to see the city,” Cleve said. “Used to be how everyone got around, least if they didn’t want to walk. And it’s really hard to become a gondolier. They have to do all this training and tests and shit.”

At first Jeff was a little tense—they passed awfully close to other boats, and the gondola didn’t seem all that stable. Plus, it seemed as if every time they passed under a bridge, there were tourists on it, taking photos of him. But then Cleve snickered a little and pressed very close to Jeff on the seat, grabbing Jeff’s hand and holding it tight while he whispered in his ear, “Let’s give the people from Alabama more interesting vacation pics for Facebook.” Jeff laughed and relaxed, even let himself pretend for a few moments that the feigned affection was real. It would have been nice to do this with someone who cared for him. Italy, Venice, wine, gondola, heated whispers—romantic as all hell.

As they made their way through the city, both Cleve and the gondolier pointed out interesting sights. And Jeff had to admit, he was seeing Venice from an entirely different angle, getting a close-up view of boat garages and seemingly rotting support timbers, of the palaces’ canal-side gardens, of Venetians going about their everyday lives, using their boats the way Californians used SUVs.