Wooden
balconies and banisters and open shutters painted green. Whitewashed
houses as a backdrop to the tumble of bright pinks and purples of
bougainvillea and the occasional red of a geranium. Tranquil shade lies
in patches on the steps up to the door, on the smooth grey cobbles, on
the brown walls under the arch that leads towards the old part of town.
And, above all, the sky. A sky so unbelievably blue he’d stopped and
stared when he’d first arrived on the island, entranced by its clarity.
Even now, used to it, it still fills him with amazement. He sits in the
shade on the steps and waits, the last words they’d exchanged echoing
in his mind.
“I wasn’t born in the Seventies,” he’d said.
“I wasn’t born in the Seventies,” Daniel had said as
well.
Same words, different meaning.
It hadn’t been an argument, merely a difference of
opinion, but it had highlighted the difference in their ages. They’d
both become aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere, maybe even in
their relationship. But, before Will could speak, Daniel said he had to
go out.
Will sighs. They’ve never really discussed their
future, although they’re always talking.
Daniel had been there for years. His fair hair
has become lighter in the sun, his skin more golden. Will came to the
island in May – just for a holiday – but ended up stayed on, doing
casual work in shops and bars. He’d met Daniel almost straightaway, and
there’d been an instant attraction between the two of them. It hadn’t
been long before Will gave up the room he’d been renting and moved in
with Daniel.
Their apartment is white walls, blue-framed pictures and
vases and glass dolphins. The light is incredible. For a moment, Will
wishes he, too, could paint and capture this purity that washes over
him.
Now it’s September, and the tourists are leaving.
Soon the bars will close for the winter, and he’ll have to find other
work. He isn’t sure how easy that will be, but Daniel waves aside his
concerns. They have enough money, he says. It’s true that Daniel’s
pictures sell well, and the cost of living is low, but Will can’t
expect Daniel to support him until next spring when the visitors, like
so many migrating birds, return.
Footsteps on the cobbled street. Will looks up,
unsure if he is ready to face Daniel.
“Kalimera,” says one of their neighbours, smiling.
“Kalimera,” Will responds. One of his few words of
Greek. He should learn the language, he knows, but everyone seems to
speak English, and he’s afraid of making mistakes. Besides, he doesn’t
know how long he will be staying.
“Have you forgotten your key?”
“Yes.” It’s too difficult to explain why he wants to
stay outside.
“The door will be open,” the man says confidently.
He nods to Will, and then enters his own house.
Will is struck by the simplicity of the man’s words.
And their ambiguity. He is so lost in thought that he
misses the sound of someone approaching from the direction of the old
town.
On seeing Daniel, Will breaks into a delighted smile before he
remembers how they’d parted. “Hi,” he says, wanting to kiss Daniel, but
too conscious of their surroundings to do so. He notices the package
Daniel is carrying, and looks up expectantly.
“I’ll show you inside,” says Daniel. Will turns and
follows him up the steps to the door that is indeed unlocked.
“I’m sorry,” Will says.
“What for?”
“I’m not sure. For being too young, for not
understanding.” He catches a glimpse of a frame, and is surprised.
Daniel’s paintings are kept in the apartment. “Did you buy it?” he asks.
“No, it’s one of mine.”
“Is it of Andreas?” Andreas and Daniel had been
lovers until Andreas’s motorbike crashed into a wall, and he was
killed. Will is dark-haired like Andreas, but there the resemblance
ends. Will’s eyes are blue, his hair straight, and he is taller but
less muscular.
“It’s a picture of you. I didn’t want you to see it
until now. One of my best, at least I think so.”
“Then why hide it?”
“I didn’t think you were ready to see it,” Daniel
says slowly. “Or maybe it was too soon for me to show it to you. Here.”
Daniel holds out the picture. “Maybe this will explain things better
than I can.”
Will takes the painting and looks at it. For a
second, he thinks Daniel must have been watching him earlier as he sat
on the steps. Then he notices the sky in the picture. It is a grey
bruise above a dismal town. Will is there, sitting in his usual place
on the steps, but his hair clings damply to his head, and his clothes
are dark with rain. His rucksack lies at his feet.
He isn’t used to interpreting pictures. Is Daniel
reminding him that it rains here, too? That weather, like
relationships, has its good days and its bad? Will’s eyes stare at the
rucksack on the steps. Is Will waiting for Daniel, or is he about to
leave him? Is that what Daniel wants? Has Will been so drunk on love
and light and wine that he’s become blind to the reality of the
situation?
Troubled, he turns to Daniel. “What does the bag
mean?”
“That you’d been somewhere – shopping, perhaps – and
had just come back.”
“So I’m coming back, not leaving?”
“No, you’re not leaving. I never meant you to think
that.”
Will studies the painting again. “Why am I sitting
on the steps when it’s raining?” he asks eventually.
“After so much sun, I thought you’d like the first
real rain of the year. I thought it would make it feel more like home.
Not just somewhere to spend a few months in the summer.
“Anyway” – Daniel sounds apologetic – “I’ve already done a painting of
you outside in the sun.” He pauses, and then adds quietly, “You’ve
never said how long you were staying.”
“I was afraid of spoiling things. It was so perfect,
but my money won’t last forever and I can’t let you subsidise me. Your
work’s here, I couldn’t ask you to come back with me.” Will turns away,
sudden tears in his eyes.
“It’s my fault, too. There are things I should have
told you. After Andreas died I swore I’d stay here. I couldn’t face
going home and leaving all the things I’d loved. It’s different now. I
have a choice. I want you to stay. Until today, I was afraid I was
asking too much.”
“I was afraid you wanted too little. I thought you
were telling me I didn’t belong.”
“So much for a picture painting a thousand words,”
Daniel says ruefully. “I’m sorry that you read more into it than I
intended.”
Will turns back to face Daniel. “I need a job.”
“I’ve found you one. Andreas’s nephew wants to learn
English.”
“Do they know about me?” Will asks, curious.
“It’s a small island – news travels fast. They’re
glad for me. They were beginning to worry.”
“They sound like nice people.”
“They are.”
Will frowns, puzzled. “What are you doing?” Daniel
has taken the painting, and started wrapping it up.
“I’ll put it away. It upset you. I didn’t mean it to
be so ambiguous.”
“I was being over-sensitive,” Will protests. “Part
of the beauty of the picture is its equivocal nature.”
“I’ll have to find another subject. I want to keep
all the pictures I do of you for myself.” Daniel removes the wrapping
paper and holds the painting at arms’ length as he regards it.
“We could buy a camera,” suggests Will. “I wanted to
record what I’d seen, but I’m no use at painting. A camera would solve
all our problems.”
“Philistine!” Daniel says fondly.
“Luddite! It must be the attraction of opposites.”
“It’s the island – the locals say it casts a spell
on you. If you stay too long, you’ll never be able to leave.”
The words are spoken lightly, but Will knows Daniel is serious.
“I don’t want to leave. So all this is just magic?”
Will asks.
“What did you think it was?” Daniel’s eyes are
tender as he gazes at Will.
“Love.”
Daniel smiles. “What’s love if it isn’t a kind of
magic?”
The End
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Jay
Mandal is a best-selling writer from England. His books The Dandelion ClockA Different Kind of Love have been
reviewed in The Independent Gay
Writer
Jay is from Southern England. After grammar school, he joined a City
bank and worked in Europe. Speakout
Magazine has published at least one Mandal story in each issue,
and his short stories have been featured in popular publications such
as Passport and Lookout. and newsletter (Vol 2,
Issue 2) (Vol 2, Issue 4) submitted this short story for this issue.
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