Glass reached up and plugged the cord into the spare socket of the electric light that hung under its Chinese hat in his little butler’s pantry.  The electric iron quickly heated and he glided it over the two newspapers.  This helped set the ink and so kept the bed sheets clean, although they would probably still be in a dreadful state as the result of passion, if not printers’ ink.

The Morning Post was placed on Martin’s side of the tray with his Indian tea and The Manchester Guardian on Stephen’s side with his Formosa Oolong.  “Thank you, Lily” he said to the maid who placed a single pink nerine in a little silver vase.  She liked to think of Lord Branksome waking up in Mr Stephen’s arms (for she knew how things were in this house) and seeing the flower that she had purchased in a bunch from Covent Garden the previous day. 

The tray was born by Glass up the stairs and into the hall where the morning’s post had already been sorted by Myles.  Personal letters, of which there were a great many today, were added to the tray and Glass continued up the stairs to the bedroom floor.  Glass had long ceased to knock on the outer door of the boy’s bedroom and was quite inured to the sights that had many times greeted his eyes when he opened the second door, for the boys’ love for each other was readily and frequently expressed in the physical form, where athleticism, invention, and the involvement of ‘toys’ and sometimes the Hon Archibald Craigth could be expected.  Sometimes the boys’ valet, Carlo, could persuade Glass to observe these intimate proceedings from the crack in the dressing room door.  Glass did not feel particularly guilty as he did this, even as he relieved his aching cock with his cousin Carlo, as his masters knew full well they were there and often called out cheekily to Carlo, “Make sure you get the good of this,” and similar ribaldries. 

On this morning Stephen was asleep with Martin held fast in the crook of his naked, muscular arm.  When the curtains were drawn and the soft London light filtered in from Green Park opposite, Glass could see dried semen on the boys’ otherwise innocent faces and two tents in the blanket represented the happy virility of the young.

Glass coughed in the manner of Mr Chilvers, and Martin was the first to quicken into life.  He sat up and shook his lover by the shoulder.

“Wake up, Derby!” Stephen opened one eye, then the other and felt his cock as if in reassurance and he stretched in the ancient bed—so different from the one he was born in.  “Happy birthday!”

“Why Mala, thank you, but it’s not for two days.”

“I know, Derbs, but your present has arrived and I wanted to give it to you before we go down to Croome.

It was true, Stephen was thirty; he was no longer a boy—if he had ever been one—but he fondly hoped that he was still considered a young man.  Only the previous day he had met his old school friend, Julian Newell, in Oxford Street and insisted on taking him for a drink at the Saville Club.  Julian, who was, back then, a very mature eighteen year-old, was now distinctly middle aged—even prematurely so.  He had had a hard war and was now married to a girl he had met in 1915.  He had two little daughters and a house in Sunningdale from where he commuted to his job in the City.  Julian’s muscle had softened and his once luxuriant hair was now thinner with touches of silver at the temples.  Stephen tried to imagine if the mat of hair on his chest that he once found so attractive would also be tinged by time.

Julian was consumed with the problems of a married man and machinations of working in a financial institution in Cheapside.  Stephen found it hard to form a connection with his world, although he could sense its boredom and a little of the pain that his friend evinced.  By contrast, his own life was distinctly idle and easy and he felt a little bit ashamed of this and tried to say as little as possible, which was not difficult because the scope of Julian’s understanding of Stephen’s life could not be widened to comprehend it.

Thus it was with mixed feelings that Stephen opened his post, which contained a number of birthday cards from friends.  Martin handed over a large envelope.  Stephen looked at him, and he nodded.  Stephen slit the paper and pulled out several pasteboard tickets.

“Venice!” cried Stephen.  “We are going to Venice?”

“Yes, Derbs, in three weeks, if that’s alright.  Myles said it would be.  I’m taking you to Venice, or rather you are taking me.  That is if you want me to come,” he added disingenuously.

“Do I want him to come, Mr Glass?”

“Not if you’d rather take me, sir,” said the butler.  “I understand that Carlo is to go,” he sniffed, but Stephen saw he had winked at Martin.

“Mala, can we afford this?”

“Of course we can, Derby, although we have pushed out the boat a bit—or should I say gondola?  Do you see where we are staying?”

“The Palazzo Pisani Moretta.”

“Yes, it’s not the whole palazzo, but it is the entire piano nobile.  It’s pink and terribly old and right on the Grand Canal.  It’s beautiful Derby and I want you to see it.”

“You can come, Derbs, can’t you?” asked Martin again, thinking of the two jobs of engineering work that Charles Fortune had sent Stephen’s way over the last few months which had involved Stephen spending some time in Liverpool.

“Yes, Mala.  I’ve finished with Wilcox and Bradbury and I don’t start the next one until November.  The money might help pay for it.”

“It might, Derby, but it costs nearly 90 pounds a week.”

“Oh my God, Mala!  You shouldn’t have told me.”

“Don’t worry about it; we’re going to have a marvellous time, and it will be educational for me; the place is stuffed full of great works of Art and I’m pretty thick when it comes to Tiepolo and Gelato and all the rest.

“Thank you, Glass,” said Martin, dismissing him, “I am going to give Mr Stephen the rest of his birthday present now.”

“Very good, your lordship, and a happy birthday to you, Mr Stephen.”

Glass reported the doings to Carlo who was laying out the boys’ clothes for the day in the adjacent dressing room.  They abandoned their work for the Carnival of Venice that followed, which they took turns in observing through the keyhole.

Stephen’s birthday was celebrated in fine style.  There was a small party at his stepfather’s cottage where there was beer and sandwiches with locals from the pub and the cricket club.  Titus Knight was close to 80 now, but was still spry and delighted to see his Stephen so happy.  The love the two had for each other was touching, and Martin felt a pang; for one day Titus must die, and he wondered how Stephen would take it.  Still, that was sometime in the future and there was not much wrong with Titus now as he launched into a description of all the rural tasks he had been engaged in over the summer.

That weekend there was a big house party with their friends and family from London.  Martin made sure there was plenty of tennis and riding, and there was dancing to Donald’s piano in the evening.  Martin liked to see Croome filled with guests and the staff somewhat stretched after weeks with not much entertaining.  Both boys went down into the kitchen and thanked Chilvers and Mrs Capstick and the servants for their special efforts.

They were just about to turn and go when Mrs Capstick spoke up:  “Mr Stephen, we would like you to accept this as a little birthday remembrance.” There were tears in her eyes, and Stephen put his arm around her good naturedly as he took the little parcel she held out.  There were expectant looks on the faces of the servants so Stephen opened the tissue paper there and then.  Inside was a little leather book, which turned out, on closer inspection, to be a pair of leather-framed photographs.  One image—a tintype— was of an infant, which Stephen recognised, with a shock, was himself.  The other was of a young woman.

“Who is this?” asked Stephen.

“It’s your mother, Mr Stephen.  My sister’s late husband was a photographer over at Wareham and she found these plates when she was clearing out his studio.  She recognised the names, and there you are, sir.”

Stephen was overcome and tears flowed down his cheeks.  He wiped them away with the back of his hand, never taking his eye off the photograph of the woman.  “She must have had them done just before she died,” he said. “I think she looks a little bit pregnant, doesn’t she Mala?”  He passed the frame over to Martin for inspection.  Yes, she was a little plump, but not fat. She was, in fact, a lovely looking woman, although the fashions of the 1890s looked quaint by today’s standards.

“Thank you, Mrs Capstick,” said Stephen, hugging her in front of the others.  “Thank you all very much,” he said to the servants in general as he looked up.  “You’ve made me very happy,” he said with an irony that was not lost as he wiped his red eyes once again. 

***** 

The trio took their time on the journey to Venice.  There was a night in Paris where Stephen’s memories of the War years were not enough to spoil the experience.  “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall, Mala, when Bunny and Dwight stayed here to ‘soak up the atmosphere’,” said Stephen with a smile.

It was true, for the two Americans had been let off lead and had spent a week in the City of Light without their English chaperones before returning home.  There had been some trouble when they had gone out on the tiles with Avery Hopwood and some other Americans they had met at the Ritz Bar and ended up at a male bordello where cocaine was passed around.  They had been arrested by the police but through the swift actions of Gerald Murphy they had been released without charge.

The Orient Express was even more elegant than the Blue Train, and Carlo was kept busy with his brush and miniature electric iron making sure his masters were properly turned out and being responsible for a large Innovation trunk, a smaller Pullman trunk in the van, and suitcase in their compartment.

The journey across eastern France and Switzerland was full of interest, especially the engineering of the Simplon tunnel which took them under the Alps to Italy and down into the most beautiful country.  Not even the presence of Martin’s ‘cousin’ Count Osmochescu could dampen their spirits.  He had business in Belgrade, he said, but did not disclose any more.  Martin was pleased to learn that his cousin Friedrich was well.

At Mestre Stephen began to join Carlo in getting ready to detrain.

“No Derby, were not getting off here; Carlo is.  We’re going on.”

“What do you mean, Mala?  Aren’t we going to Venice?  I don’t want to go to Constantinople.”

“This is part of my surprise.  We are going on to Trieste so we can catch the ferry and arrive in Venice the morning after next at sunrise.  I wanted it to be like that German book you liked.”

“And they say the English are cold fish and not romantic!  Thank you Mala, I’m overwhelmed.”

And so it was.  Carlo left with the heavy luggage while the boys stayed on the train with just the suitcase as it crossed the plain of the Piave River where Hemmingway had been wounded and found themselves at Trieste at the head of the Adriatic.

The city was tremendously interesting and the architecture spoke of its former importance in the Austrian Empire.  Yet there were signs of the new order and the Italian language was now being mandated in this the ‘III Anno’ of the Fascist regime, as they saw proclaimed everywhere.  There was new building going on, including a university with a great tower, which dominated the city.

Down at the port they found the overnight ferry.  It was a large vessel, and Martin had booked a first class cabin.  They dined in the city and boarded at a late hour.  The journey was about 70 miles.  Martin was very anxious and kept looking up at the sky.

They were dozing in their berths, but Martin couldn’t sleep.  It was not even five when he shook Stephen awake and had him come up on deck.  It was cold and dark, with low clouds covering the stars.  An hour went by and the sky behind them lightened.  The clouds were not so thick as they had seemed.  They strained their eyes.  Then they thought could pick out lights low on the horizon—fishing villages on the sand spit.

“Look,” said Martin pointing to a brighter cluster of lights, “that must be The Lido.”

As they got closer the traffic became busier as boats were putting out or coming in after fishing all night.  There were some larger cargo vessels and ferries making for the industrial area on the mainland.

The sky lightened as sunrise neared and the ferry seemed to head directly for disaster on the sand spit. But then, when they got close enough to recognise hotels and buildings, they spotted the opening and the boat passed into the lagoon.

Here, before them, unfolded a most memorable experience.  The mist cleared sufficiently above the water to reveal a fantastic skyline illuminated by the rising sun.  It was pink; it was blue; there was white marble and russet-toned stone and flashes of bright gold.  Towers, domes, archways, windows, doors, balconies, all seemed to sing in the morning sun as the city seemed to rise up from the water.  Stephen couldn’t speak, but he remembered thinking that it was like the Canaletto that hung at Croome except that the water was not blue, but green and the place smelled of the sea and the damp air.

The ferry drew nearer and they passed some islands in the lagoon and then they could see the opening of the Grand Canal and the rounded bulk of the Santa Maria della Salute.  The vessel, however, passed to the south, north of Guidecca Island, and made for the more utilitarian side of the city where there was the port and the railway line from the mainland.

“It’s wonderful,” Stephen kept saying.  “It’s like Oxford and Cambridge in that you wonder why something composed of such unearthly beautiful parts —such jewels— was ever built at all— and here in this lagoon of all places,” he said.

They landed and it wasn’t long before they found themselves in a vaporetto being buzzed down the Grand Canal.  Everything was breathtaking and the way the Venetians coped with their watery streets was brimming with human interest.  There were so many palazzi and churches that by the time they reached the Rialto Bridge the boys were starting to discriminate.  To Stephen’s delight they passed under the bridge and continued on their S-shaped course until at last they moored at the magnificent rose-tinted façade of their palazzo and indeed in its gothic style it was one of the finest they had seen on their journey.

“They’re our apartments up there,” said Martin pointing to the first floor with its immense loggia with gothic arches and long curtains against the sun— for it faced south and showed up well in the daylight.  Stephen could imagine having wonderful meals out there and being able to look up and down the Grand Canal at the passing parade.

They went in through one of the two pairs of great wooden doors and found themselves in a space that was neither strictly inside nor out.  Baroque flights of marble stairs led upwards and standing on the bottom step was the welcome figure of Carlo.

“Benvenuto!” said Carlo with a grin.  “Although the people here don’t speak proper Italian and pretend not to understand me.”

“Lead on Carlo, show us our digs,” said Martin.

The rooms were vast, cool, and echoed to the sounds of their  and the clanging of the heavy doors.  There were several rooms with impressive baroque frescos on the walls and ceilings.  There were scenes from the Old Testament and classical literature which all seemed to involve theatrical costumes, like Stephen’s gladiator’s tunic, with lots of writhing and imperious gestures.  No doubt a guide could explain most eloquently what they all meant.

“This sort of thing looks so much more appropriate here in Italy than back home in England, don’t you think, Derby?” said Martin, “although I can understand how my ancestors wanted to replicate it once they had seen it as tourists.”

“It speaks to something inside us.  I’m not sure that it encourages the best in us, mind you, but it strikes a chord,” said Stephen looking up at a ceiling.

Under the baleful eyes of the gods and the leers of plump putti, they continued their tour.  There were two bedrooms with rococo details.  They decided that they liked the arsenic green one for their own use.  It had a huge bed with osprey feathers on the corner posts.

The main salon, like the bedrooms, opened on to the loggia with its gothic tracery.  To step through the windows into the sun and shade was an experience every bit as theatrical as the frescos by Tiepolo, for over the balustrade lay all of Venice astride the Grand Canal, like the cyclorama of London that Martin remembered seeing as a little boy.

They stood for half an hour just absorbing the scene and were only interrupted when Carlo came and asked them if they would like some tea.

“Would Robert Browning and Keats and Lord Byron have had tea, Mala?” asked Stephen.

“Surely they would,’ said Martin, shocked by any suggestion of the unorthodox in his countrymen.  “Certainly I can imagine Ruskin drinking tea.  We’ll have tea out here, Carlo.”

Carlo and a pretty Italian maid returned with tea and some sumptuous cakes.

“Carlo, are you comfortably settled?” asked Stephen.

“Oh yes sir, I have a small room towards the back with the servants.  I have to share it of course with Maurizio who is the footman of Signora Sammartini.  It is a very small room; not much more than a large cupboard.” He raised his eyebrow in a Chilveresque manner.

“And the third cup?” asked Martin looking down at the tray.

“I took the liberty, your lordship… Signora Sammartini, our landlady, expressed a desire to meet you when you were settled and I thought…”

“Yes, that’s very good, Carlo.  Do ask her to join us if she is not otherwise engaged,” said Martin a trifle floridly and catching something of the temper of the city.

The boys waited, enjoying the sight of the fruiterer taking his little craft up the smaller canals where business was conducted at a distance and a basket was lowered on a rope.

Carlo announced Signora Sammartini and a woman in an elegant black dress stepped forward.

Introductions were effected and the Signora’s features were studied.  She was perhaps in the middle thirties—certainly not yet forty—and was really very beautiful in a highly composed sort of way.  Here clothes proclaimed she was a widow, and she explained that she had lost her husband in the war.

“My husband was descended from the Pisani family who built this palazzo in the sixteenth century,” she said.  “The name has died out and our fortune has declined with it; that is why I confine myself to the apartments on the floor above and I have the pleasure of taking in ‘paying guests’ — is that how you say it in polite English?”

Martin smiled and said that was exactly right.

She went on to tell the story of the house and the family.  It was terribly interesting, and Martin wished he had taken notes.  Stephen smiled radiantly at the Signora and she from time to time looked directly at him and boldly returned his smiles.

“And so you have come to Venice for the first time for a holiday?”

“The first time in Italy, Signora, although we holiday in France quite often.  I wanted Mr Knight-Poole to see it; it’s his birthday you see.”

“You are very generous, Lord Branksome, but I know this already and I know Mr Knight-Poole has an old cottage in Antibes.”  The boys looked at her in surprise.  “Yes you see I have a friend—the most important woman in all Venice—and she has a friend who knows you.”  She looked delighted at this mischief.

“The most important women in Venice?  Is it the Queen Elena or Signora Mussolini?” asked Martin, bewildered.

“Oh no, much more important here in Venice.  Her name is, Mrs Athlete”

Martin and Stephen looked confused.

“I say it wrongly because my English is so bad.  Let me write it down for you.” Carlo fetched a pencil and a note pad and the lady careful printed the name and passed it to Stephen.

“ ‘Mrs Oughtinleech’?” he said looking at the other two.

“Let me, Derby,” said Martin taking the paper.  He read the name A-U-C-H-I-N-L-E-C-H.  “It is pronounced ‘Af-lek’, Derby and I’ve heard Mrs Chadwick mention her name.  Stephen rolled his eyes once again as the ways of the upper class.

“That is exactly right,” said the Signora brightly.  “These English names are hard to pronounce,” she said and she tried saying it softly under her breath two or three times.  “I believe when their husbands were alive they divided up the Riviera between them.  Signora Auchinlech had from Mentone to Rapallo and now she is in charge of the English here in Venice.”

Martin and Stephen again exchanged glances, astonished at their ignorance of this unsung and ex-officio group of matrons who ruled, if not parts of the British Empire, clearly the marchlands of the British Diaspora.

“And if I am not mistaken, Lord Branksome,” continued Signora Sammartini, “you have a letter from the lady herself.  Everyone in Venice knows her blue paper.” Martin looked at the pile of letters that Carlo had set down with the tea and certainly the blue one in stiff paper stood out imperiously from the crowd.

Martin and Stephen chatted to her about Croome and she told them about the great banquets that were still held at this house.

“It is a pity it is not Carnivale, because the palazzo is widely known to have the most splendid ball in all Venice, Mrs Auchinlech’s included,” she said with a smile.

“Well we would certainly like to give a dinner here and we do hope you will be free to join us,” said Stephen warmly.

“Thank you Mr Knight-Poole, and I think you will find that our chef is one of the best in the city.  Do feel free to consult me, if I’m not being a buzzing body.”

“No, you are most gracious, Signora, and far from a busy body.  Hands were kissed and the lady departed.

There was lunch on the loggia and the food, as the Signora had promised, was excellent, the main course being veal cooked in a creamy sauce. “I wonder how much she knows about us, Derbs; I found it hard to tell.  I do like her though.”

Both of the boys were itching to explore Venice, and with the aid of the inevitable Baedeker, they set out on canal and on foot, starting with Piazza San Marco.

Meanwhile, as proper Italians knew, it was the hour for a siesta.  Carlo went up to the little servants’ crib that he had been given on the next floor.  He had to press himself against the bed to close the door behind him.  The room was hot and so he opened the tiny window that looked down into the palazzo’s courtyard.  He took off his jacket and tie and unlaced his shoes.  He tried to keep these things to his side of the room, for the far side belonged to Maurizio the young footman.  That side of the room was decorated with magazine clippings of actresses and footballers and cyclists.  There was a picture of a woman who was presumably his mother and a small crucifix.

Carlo had started to doze when the door opened and hit his bed.  There stood Maurizio with an agitated look on his face.  He apologised in Italian to Carlo and threw himself down on the bed.

“What is it, Maurizio?” asked Carlo.  “You don’t seem calm.”

“How can I be tranquillo when that strega torments me?”

Carlo asked for more information, and it was readily forthcoming.  Apparently Maurizio had a passion for the maid who had brought the cakes this morning—they even had an understanding he said—and he had now found that he had been walking back from Mass with Titsiano who was the assistant in the shop that sold cured meats.

“Apart from a few kisses, I have not even touched her, and how I burn, Carlo!” he said in torment.

Carlo asked Maurizio to describe her, which he did in detail and with some editorialising now that she had been found to be inconstant.  Then, with a little prompting, Maurizio described other girls that he had known and whose defects now looked less damaging in view of recent developments.

Carlo rolled on his elbow and looked at Maurizio.  He was fairer than himself and the hair on his chest and throat that Carlo could see was not as prominent as his own dark thatch, although he imagined it covered most of his body.  He was certainly nice-looking and Carlo wondered why the maid had let her eyes wander.  His looks were further bolstered by an attitude that Carlo knew all too well: he believed himself to be good looking and probably his mama on the wall in the velvet frame had told him so ever since he could sit on her knee.

Maurizio was now getting worked up as he related the story of twins on a farm that he had seduced when he was visiting a relative.  He was kneading his cock through his trousers as he spoke.  He saw Carlo watching and said: “Mi dispiace, Carlo”

“No, no, don’t mind me, guardate qui,” he replied indicating his own hardening cock.

In one movement Maurizio leapt from his bed and hung a shirt over the crucifix and the picture of his mother.  He then bounced himself back on the bed and commenced to wriggle out of his tight trousers and he took off his shirt.  He looked across at Carlo who was urged to do the same.  Lastly Maurizio slid down his underwear and released a large cock, which reminded Carlo of the sopressa he saw hanging in the delicatessen, although the one on the 22 year-old could no longer said to be hanging.  Carlo was glad that Italian parents did not circumcise their infant sons.

“Those girls don’t know what they are missing,” said Carlo in Italian, looking over.  Maurizio was mightily amused at this and wagged his cock at Carlo and Carlo returned the salute.  Maurizio leaned back and threw his strong hairy right leg over Carlo’s left—the beds being so close.  Carlo watched from the corner of his eye, and saw how Maurizio liked to rub his nipples through the hair and how he would pause and heft his balls with his left hand while the muscles on his right arm bulged under their labours.

Carlo thought he would spill first so he could concentrate more on watching the young man when his turn came.  He did and made sure that Maurizio got a good view and he used all his skill to ejaculate across his left breast and shoulder.  Maurizio was not to be outdone, and shot a young man’s fulsome load on his stomach and chest where it quickly congealed in his light brown hair.

He let out a sigh as he relaxed, covered in his own seed.  “I had need of that, Carlo,” he said in Italian.  “I am calmer now.  I might however need to do it again tonight.”

“And in the morning?”

“Naturally in the morning.  We will go out to a certain café tonight, Carlo, if your masters do not require you.  I have this girl there and she has an older sister…”

Carlo was going to ask how she compared to the maid here at the palazzo, but thought that it was impolitic.  He did venture to hope that the girl (and her sibling) would spur Maurizio on to similar efforts in the little room in the intimacy of the coming night. 

***** 

The next day was again devoted to sight-seeing with a visit to the Santa Maria Della Salute and the Island of the Dead which Martin thought would be more interesting than Murano, which was full of tourists.  They were having coffee and looking at the passing crowds in St Mark’s Square.

“Derbs, you know we’ve been invited to the Porters’ the day after tomorrow and at the end of the week we have been commanded to go to Mrs Auchinlech’s.  I think we are bound to give a dinner party ourselves.  Would you like that?”

“It would be fun, Mala, and there are certainly enough people to invite. That’s the thing about being a peer, Mala, you’re never in want of a meal.”

“But this is your birthday present, Derbs.  What would you like to do?”

“I’d like to hire a carriage and see some of the country beyond the city.  Make it a picnic.”

“Then I’ll get Carlo to organise it.  Now tonight we are going to the opera.”  Stephen groaned.  “Don’t worry it’s a Puccini—Madama Butterfly— so there’s nice tunes.  You’ll look splendid in your evening clothes, Derbs; it’s white tie, I’m afraid.”

The picnic promised to be a very different affair to the opera where Signora Sammartini, Mr and Mrs Cole Porter, and several other people they had met over the past few days were also present in the glittering circle of La Fenice.  Carlo had arranged with the cousin of one of the servants to provide a carriage and a driver whom they met on the mainland early in the morning.

Guido, the driver, was a very handsome young man, about 19, but perhaps younger.  Martin and Stephen looked at each other as they climbed in to the open carriage.  Guido sat up on the box in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up to expose bronzed muscular arms.  Already there was a small triangular patch of sweat staining the middle of his broad back.  Under his cloth cap was a mop of unruly black hair, curlier than Stephen’s, but of a similar texture.  Perhaps he came from the south, although his eyes were blue.  Under a Roman nose was a pair of full lips that gripped a cigarette and reminded them of Hélias.  His eyes and lips betrayed a sense of humour and he had some English, which he explained was from working as a guide for tourists from time to time.

It was cool, but as they made their way towards the Brenta River the sun came out and it quickly warmed up.  Guido kept pointing out the sights: cherry orchards, vineyards, and the names of villages.  The land was rich and productive with many market gardens supplying the cities of the Veneto.

He asked them a few questions to which they replied.  Then he said.  “If you like, I have a sister who has a friend.  They would be very grateful if you would take them on a picnic; it would give them a day off from the laundry where they wash people’s clothes.  They are very good girls— most of the time.”  The kind offer of Guido’s sister and her friend was politely turned down, and Guido said that it was just as well as they might lose their jobs. He was silent for a few minutes.  Then he said:  “I also have a younger brother; he is only 14 but is very clean and polite and would also show his gratitude for being taken on a picnic.”  Again this kind offer was refused. Guido persisted: “Well then, would you like to have your midday meal at my family’s farm.  It is not far from here and my nonna is a most excellent cook.  It would be better than your tramazzini.”  He then recited a menu of his grandmother’s specialities for his own delight as much as for the boys’.

“We’d love to, Guido, if it is not too much trouble, but only if you let us pay you.  Does your grandmother have many to feed?” asked Stephen.

Guido shrugged.  “There is my father and his brother and my five brothers.  My mother has something wrong with her lungs and is away at a hospital in the mountains.  One of my brothers is away working in Milano and another…” he hesitated and turned around to confront them, “…is in prison.”

He looked upset and Martin wondered if he was going to cry.  “I am the youngest and he is the eldest.”

“What about your sister and the polite one who is 14?”

“I invented them for you,” he said suddenly grinning.  “No, Robertino is the oldest and I am the bambino.  My brother, he supports the Communists and the Union of Farm Workers.  The police arrest him and he is put in prison with no trial.  It is the Fascisti!” he said with vehemence, but in a hoarse whisper, his eyes blazing.

The boys sympathised warmly with him and Martin was about to give him a fist full of lire when he realised that sterling would be more appreciated.  He found a ten shilling note and a look from Stephen made him add another and he handed the notes up to Guido.  He gave an astonished look and then, with tears welling up in his eyes, took the money and stuffed it into his pocket.

Guido turned the horse in the direction of his farm and they trotted through beautiful lush scenery dotted with stone farmhouses.  At one of these he stopped and got down to open the gate.  He took the carriage up a muddy track and halted in the farmyard where the untidy evidence of agriculture could be seen all about them.

The boys climbed down.

“This is the barn and over there are…”

“The pigs?”

“Yes,” said Guido who could smell them too.  “We have a big orchard of plums and cherries and apples.  There are figs and loquats too.”  He rattled off the other crops, sometimes not finding the appropriate English word, but a description and a familiarity with Latin made it eventually quite clear.

He took them inside.  The house was not particularly clean, but there were wonderful cooking smells coming from the cucina where an old woman was stooped engaged in crumbing veal fillets.

Nonna was introduced and she did not seem at all fussed by the two extra guests.  Martin was fairly sure that Guido was explaining to her in the Veneto dialect that they were paying for their meal.

They continued to look around Guido’s farm, which seemed to lack the modern tools and equipment of British farms and was a good deal smaller than even the smallest one on Martin’s own estate.  There were some pretty views down to a stream lined with poplars where Guido told them they fished for frogs, which were a delicacy, when there was a call from the house.

“Nonna has ‘thrown the pasta’,” he explained and that meant that the men of the family were on their way in from the fields.

The meal was to be taken on a large stone table outside by the kitchen door. Stephen was envious of this table and he coveted it for Antibes.

The men arrived and sat down.  Guido explained about the visitors, calling them grande signori.  The men were lively and humorous, making the guests welcome and teasing Guido and each other in a language that neither Stephen nor Martin could follow.

There was red wine in tumblers and for the special occasion, some local prosecco was opened.  It had a sweet taste and fizzed like champagne. Nonna’s food was certainly wonderful.  There was homemade bread and a broth streaked with raw egg and spinach with tiny butterfly-shaped macaroni in it.  This was followed by pasta course—long ribbons in a creamy sauce with white wine, garlic and squares of ham.  Then there was the veal, which was actually served cold and accompanied by a salad made of fennel. With this was a yellow square of maize porridge called polenta.  This had been fried in the meat juices and was delicious and very filling.  Stephen understood that this was a great staple when times were hard.

The brothers teased Guido and were calling him a finocchio when Nonna brought a strong cheese which was placed on the table with a dish of peppers dripping in garlic and oil.  These were delicious with the bread.  The boys were urged to try both.  Then a bowl of peaches was carried to the table and a good natured but fierce debate broke out concerning which peaches and from which year were the best, the father and his sons each holding up rival specimens and gesticulating adamantly, pointing out its relative merits with great passion.

It was all very friendly and warm-hearted and it seemed to mask the poverty and other troubles that Guido’s family suffered.  Martin and Stephen felt happy.

The men returned to the fields, shaking the boys’ hands and thumping them on the back.  Nonna retired to her room to sleep before she had to start preparing the next meal.  Guido took Martin and Stephen inside to a dormitory-like room.  “This is where I sleep.  It is usually more crowded but Roberto and Agostino are not here.  Clearly there was more than one to a bed even in the best of times.  “You have given me a lot of money; do you want me to do things to you?”

The money threatened to spoil the moment, but Guido was dismissive: “I took the money because we need it.  My nonna enjoyed strangers eating her food— did you see how she watched to make sure you cleaned up your plates and took more?  You would not know it, but you made her happy.  You would make me happy if I could do something for you, if you want to.  I am used to it.  As the youngest I have to keep my brothers happy.”

“You do?” asked Stephen.

“Yes, of course.  They are virile; can’t you smell it in here.”  Stephen though he could smell manly sweat and stale semen.  “I had to do two of them this morning or they would not have been able to go off to work,” he laughed.

Guido had not waited for an answer and was already out of his clothes, his cloth cap cast aside.  He stood naked on the bed, with his head nearly touching the low ceiling beam.  He grinned and showed off his body.  He was not tall, but well-formed and deeply tanned from the outdoors.  He had a big cock that was not circumcised and, like Stephen, he enjoyed stretching his foreskin.  He spread his legs so that they might inspect his balls, which hung low and were surrounded by a thick thatch of black, curly hair.  Next he put his arms behind his head to show off his armpits and chest.  He laughed at the exaggerated poses he was striking.  Lastly he bent over so that they might look at his hole, which was red and puffy, perhaps from this morning’s labours.  He reached out and took their hands, inviting them to feel him all over.  He shivered as they did so and Stephen roughly stroked his cock several times.

He jumped down from the bed and was replaced by Martin who had shed his own clothes.  Martin showed himself off in the same manner and Guido, at one point, rubbed his hole with a wetted index finger.  “He is your lover?” he asked Stephen.  Stephen nodded.  “He is very beautiful.”  Martin’s buttocks and thick circumcised cock were admired.

Lastly Stephen was stood on the bed.  He had to bend uncomfortably because of the low ceiling, but hands were run admiringly over him just the same.  Guido spent a long time inspecting his cock and balls, saying he had never seen a more impressive set in all of Veneto.  “What do you want me to do?” he asked simply.

“Would you fuck my friend?” said Martin, suddenly excited by the prospect.  Guido shrugged and the ice was broken with a kiss, Stephen having to bend down to reach his lips.

Guido pressed Stephen’s head down to make him suck, but Stephen suddenly stood Guido on the bed again where he was at a more comfortable height.  He sucked the Italian to hardness, using all the techniques he liked performed on himself, letting his lips rather than his hands do the work and then placing Guido’s hands on his skull when he though a little more intensity was required. Martin, meanwhile, had started out as a passive observer, but couldn’t restrain himself for long and was soon using his hands and his tongue wherever he could find an opening.

Spittle and olive oil were applied to both participants and Guido made some jabbing motions until he had broken through.  Stephen let out a moan, but urged him on and soon the thick Italian cock had stretched Stephen wide and he was in deep.  Both boys rocked backwards and forwards until they established a satisfactory rhythm between them, and their little moans and grunts testified to their mutual enjoyment.  Presently Stephen was turned over and Martin marvelled at his now dilated hole.  Guido was urged on to a greater fury, with Stephen and Martin rubbing their palms over his fury chest and painfully pinching his nipples.  Martin was stroking his own cock as he admired Guido’s olive-toned buttocks that seemed to swivel almost independently of his torso as he savagely and relentlessly thrust into Stephen.  Stephen called Martin over and spat on his own hands to work Martin’s cock and then managed to insert two fingers into his lover.

All the indications were there; Guido was about to spill.  Stephen reached down and gripped each of Guido’s buttocks and held him firmly inside him until he was sure that he had spilled. “Get down there, Martin!” commanded Stephen and Martin managed to push his face into both their groins and he licked and snuffled at the cock that was still inside Stephen.  As it was withdrawn he tasted both their essences.

Stephen saw that Guido’s cock was still flowing so he commanded him to enter Martin.  Guido was well lubricated and required little encouragement; Martin’s buttocks were cool and succulent.  Martin used all his muscles to squeeze the last drops out, and Guido thought that this was particularly wonderful.  They collapsed on the bed.

“Now you do it to me,” said Guido suddenly.  Stephen was still hard and randy.  With some lubrication he entered Guido as he had been entered so shortly before.  Guido uttered an oath in Italian, which became a scream.  Martin was alarmed lest the grandmother might hear.  Stephen slowed to a crawl until Guido was comfortable and grinning once again.  Then Stephen increased his pace, moving in and out with great moment.  Martin could see poor Guido’s anal ring being flexed mercilessly and wondered if that was how he looked with Stephen inside him.

Stephen tossed Guido around like a rag doll and was violently hammering him, with his arms clasped around Guido’s face, his neck pulled right back.  Guido spilled on the blankets.  Martin could tell Stephen was getting close. He dropped to his knees and worked on Stephen’s balls, as he knew what he liked, pulling on them firmly.  Stephen suddenly withdrew from Guido who gasped and broadcast his seed across his back, some going into his hair and more onto the pillow; a drop landed on the plaster wall where Martin wiped it off with his handkerchief.

It took a full ten minutes of affectionate recuperation before anyone could speak.  Guido had lost his English, but the meaning of what he burbled was clear.  He rose from the bed and naked went out into the empty kitchen.  He returned with a tin dish of warm water and a small towel.  He then very gently commenced to wash Stephen and Martin before they took the dish from him and did the same to Guido.  At last they dressed.  Guido turned the stained pillow over and they left the room and headed back to the carriage.

It was late afternoon when they reached the bridge.  Guido said over and over that he had had a wonderful time.  Martin pressed some more money into his hands and told him to use it to visit his mother and brother.  Out of sight they said their farewells with kisses on the lips, but Guido supplemented these with a tender kiss for each of them between their legs where he knew their grateful cocks were hanging.   

***** 

The next day was hot and they decided to spend it at the Lido on the beach in front of the Grand Hotel des Bains.  Here Stephen paraded backwards and forwards in his brief swimming trunks that eschewed the usual top.  He received many admiring glances, including from some schoolboys.  As Martin had observed in Antibes, many Italian men wore similar costumes, which unashamedly showed off their bulging sex.  Martin’s only wish was that this proud attitude should be confined to the young and handsome and he thought that Mussolini should do something about all the others, but then, he reflected Mussolini himself…

When Stephen was bored he went in swimming and they passed the day in sandy camaraderie with a group of university students from Padua.  Stephen took Martin to a shop and he brought him a new costume.  Martin wondered if he would ever dare to wear it.  Thus they were tired when they took the vaporetto back to Venice.

At the Ca Rezzonico the Porters held a wonderful party with thousands of coloured electric lights and servants and performers dressed in elaborate costumes enough to transform what was already a fantasy into something even more unearthly.  The highlight was Cole himself at the piano playing some of his own compositions from the Greenwich Village Follies, which had not been entirely well received in New York.  Cole was a bit dispirited, and Martin impassionedly told him how lively and witty his songs were and encouraged him to keep trying.  At the end of the evening, Porter thanked Martin and, being a little drunk, kissed him in the shadows.  “If you should ever tire your boyfriend…,” he began in his crawing voice and then laughed, “…or if your boyfriend should tire of you…well I’ll leave my window wide in this cosy little nest, your lordship.”

Martin and Stephen’s dinner was, by way of contrast, more sedate and less theatrical and relied on the twilight panorama on the Grand Canal for effect.  The elegant Signora and four of her friends joined with the Porters in a serious discussion about Venice and Martin and Stephen were left with several more obscure sights to see in their last days.

“I love it here,” said Stephen as he lay in the big bed with its feathered corner posts.  He was naked and sweaty, just how Martin liked him, and Martin lay contentedly in his muscular arms with his nose in his right armpit and the backs of his fingers just caressing Stephen’s flaccid cock to let it know it could be breathed into life.  “When we get back to England I think I will feel that Venice— this whole trip— has been a dream.  How can such a place really exist?”  Martin kissed him and wondered if being here, in bed, with Stephen was also a dream and that he would wake up alone in quite a different life.

Mrs Auchinlech’s reception, on their last evening, seemed to strike fear into the hearts of even sophisticated Venetians like Signora Sammartini, and Carlo caught some of this and was driven to extra pains with their white ties and tailcoats.  “The Venetians are very particular about their dress.  It must be a white waistcoat and you must take your silk hats and carry your gloves.”

They were dispatched with their landlady in a gondola for the short trip up to the Rialto to where Mrs Auchinlech’s particularly grand palazzo was located. Signora Sammartini was still dressed in black, but it was a most beautiful evening dress that narrowed at her knees and was highlighted by a black beaded shawl with a zigzag appliqué in dull gold.

When they arrived they ascended the stairs and found themselves in a receiving line.  They were reintroduced to Mrs Auchinlech whom they had met at Madama Butterfly.  Martin felt that he simply must curtsey but managed to stop himself.  Mrs Auchinlech was a formidable woman with an armour-plated bosom upon which dangled a lorgnette for withering inspections.  She stood at the head of the stairs under a portrait of Queen Mary and indeed with her toque there was more than a passing resemblance.  She had a cut glass accent with many strangulated vowels.  Martin was normally good with accents, but could not quite place it, but, if he had to guess, he thought it might be from the suburbs of London or perhaps the south coast.

Martin and Stephen were drawn to a knot of English residents clustered around Mrs Auchinlech who was holding forth and looked to Martin like a sea lioness on a rock surrounded by her young. “…Yes, I had an audience with Il Duce earlier this year when I was in Rome.  He was waiting impatiently in the reception hall of the Palazzo Venezia with his thumbs in his belt but I took my time crossing the room. ‘Mrs Auchinlech, do you speak Italian?’ he said. ‘Only in the imperative, Signore Mussolini,’ I replied….”

The reception had quite a few minor royals and the aristocracy of Venice among its number as well as the representatives of the English colony under the thumb of Mrs Auchinlech.  To the boys’ delight, however, the reception was being given in honour of the officers from two American warships that were visiting the Adriatic.  The American consul was there and so were the Cole Porters.  There was a dinner, which was good but rather stiff.  There was plenty of wine which continued to flow after the meal as the guests stood around in the magnificent salon.  As the evening wore on Martin could detect a rise in volume in the American voices in particular, with occasional guffaws as some sailor’s tale was being told.  Mrs Auchinlech moved from group to group doing her duty in a slightly bloodless manner.

At 11 o’clock Martin even began to detect signs of drunkenness in some of the crowd and was just about to report this observation to Stephen who was talking to Cole Porter when there was a ringing sound; Mrs Auchinleck was tapping on her wine glass with a teaspoon to command attention.

“Mrs Throgmorton-Smythe will now sing for us.”

There was silence, but a voice, an American voice, a drunken American voice, piped up: “Aw, Mrs Throgmorton-Smythe is a cocksucker!”

There was an awful hush until the hostess broke it.

“Nevertheless, she will sing.” 

To be continued…