Michele - 1. Chapter 1

Michele was having a perfectly normal day until his best friend turned round and kissed him.

It was the hottest part of the day. Michele and his friend Toto, both fourteen, were passing the time playing videogames in Toto’s small, cool bedroom in the apartment above Toto’s father’s shop. The fierce sun of an Italian summer beat down on the narrow shopping street that threaded through the heart of the small mountain town of Ravello.

Toto had been Michele’s best friend for as long as he could remember. Michele’s mother worked long hours in a bar down on the coast in Amalfi, while his father was often out of town on business, so Michele had grown up spending most of his free time with Toto. Toto’s father, Salvatore, had trusted them to roam freely under the watchful eye of the close-knit local community while he worked hard in his grocery store.

Michele and Toto had always had an easy and fun relationship. As younger children they had played endlessly in the nearby cathedral square, then as they grew a little older they had wandered more widely, having adventures among the narrow lanes, olive groves, vineyards and lemon plantations that criss-crossed the hills below the town.

Today, they were laughing and joking as they played, perched on the side of Toto’s untidy bed. Michele had just exercised a particularly audacious manoeuvre, and had turned, smiling, to Toto when it happened.

Toto’s brown eyes had taken on an unusually bright look, and then, out of nowhere, Michele’s trusted friend and childhood companion had leaned forward and kissed him. On the lips.

Confusion had erupted in Michele’s mind at once. Disbelief, revulsion and unwanted excitement all crashed in together, and he pushed Toto hard back onto his bed with a cry of “Get off me!”

That was the moment Michele realised that Toto’s father, Salvatore, had happened to be passing the bedroom door at that moment and had seen the whole thing. Toto had realised it only seconds later, the look in his eyes changing instantly from hurt to panic.

Sitting frozen on the bed, Michele watched as Toto scrambled towards the door and shoved on his shoes.

“Explain yourself, Toto,” Salvatore had snapped.

Salvatore reached down to catch hold of Toto at the precise moment that Toto rose from the floor. Michele winced as he saw Salvatore’s outstretched hand collide painfully with the side of Toto’s face. Toto cried out and was gone, with Salvatore in hot pursuit; Michele could hear his feet receding down the hall and then down the stairs.

“Get back here!” he heard Salvatore shout, but then a loud clatter told Michele that Toto had already made it out into the street and escaped.

Salvatore reappeared at the doorway a few moments later. His thin face was deeply knotted at the brow and he was breathing hard.

“I think you’d better go, Michele,” he said.

“Yes, signore,” Michele replied quickly, and then he, too, slipped his trainers back on and ran.

* * *

There was no sign of Toto in the narrow, crazy-paved street, which bustled with locals and tourists alike, all seemingly unaware that the world had just been turned upside-down. Michele turned right into the blazing sun, hot shame coursing through his veins, and stormed off in search of somewhere he could breathe.

Before long, Michele had emerged next to the plain, whitewashed façade of the town’s imposing cathedral, which looked down on Ravello’s quietly buzzing main square.

The square was lined with colourful shops and bars, where visitors chatted over ice creams or much-needed cold drinks. Michele, however, was blind to all this. He jogged across to the far side of the stone-paved square, where tall pine trees framed the striking, sun-drenched view across the valley to the tree-crowned mountains on the far side, the sprawling village of Scala perched halfway up amidst the carefully terraced and cultivated slopes. He came to rest against the safety railings in the shade of the trees, breathing hard, the air ringing with the scraping song of cicadas high up among the pine needles above his head. Michele picked up a thumbnail-sized piece of gravel from amidst the decorative shrubs that surrounded the trees and flung it over the edge as hard as he could with an angry grunt. He heard a distant ‘clunk’ as it bounced off something in the tree-lined car park down below.

Why? Why did he have to give me that stupid kiss?

Michele was distracted at that point by the clattering sound of a Vespa scooter pulling up on the street nearby. He turned and groaned inwardly as he saw the figure who was now disembarking next to the flower baskets that stopped traffic from entering the square.

It was Enzo, the self-styled toughest kid at school, sixteen years old and with all the refinement of a gorilla in a jewellery store. At least, Michele realised gratefully, he was on his own today. Enzo was usually accompanied by his usual sidekicks, a pair of intellectually challenged teens named Filippo and Antonio.

Enzo looked up and caught sight of Michele, and a malicious smile curled his lips.

“Hey, it’s little Michele,” he said, swaggering over.

“Leave me alone,” Michele shot back, more assertively than he would normally have managed. I can’t deal with this just now.

For a moment Enzo looked surprised and even a little impressed, but his brutish face soon regained its customary sneer.

“Where’s your little friend Toto?” he asked.

“He’s not here,” Michele replied.

“Why?” Enzo probed, adding in a loaded voice “You two are usually so attached.”

Michele’s conflicted emotions boiled over. “Look, he kissed me, okay?” he shouted. “Now leave me alone.”

At this, Enzo actually stepped back for a second, but then a look of disgust spread over his flat features. He came forward again and put his hands on Michele’s shoulders in a grotesque imitation of a paternal gesture.

“That little queer,” he hissed. “Do you want me to pound him for you?”

“What?” Michele said, his anger dissipated by a sudden jolt of fear. “No!”

“Are you sure?” Enzo replied. “It would be my pleasure.”

This time it was Michele who took a step back, shaking Enzo’s hands from his shoulders. “No,” he repeated. “You don’t need to that.”

Enzo drew back. “All right,” he said sullenly, “but you, Michele, are going to spend some time with me. You need to hang out with some real men.”

Michele’s heart sank. “I don’t know,” he said evasively. “I don’t think I…”

“I won’t take no for an answer, Michele,” Enzo said menacingly. “Meet me at the bottom of Via Roma tomorrow at nine o’clock. Be there, or there’ll be trouble.”

Enzo turned and slouched off across the square to whatever business he had in town. Michele ran a hand through his chestnut-brown hair and then shoved both hands into the pockets of his dark blue denim shorts. He was already regretting his outburst.

What did I have to tell him for? I’ve just made things ten times worse.

Knowing Enzo, Michele thought, what had happened between him Toto would soon be all over town. He imagined the whispers, the funny looks… but maybe, if he played along with Enzo’s scheme, it wouldn’t come to that.

* * *

Struggling in the oppressive heat of the early afternoon, Michele decided to head for home. He set off across the exposed, sunny square, making for the shade of a narrow street on the far side that led off between further shops and restaurants. His father was currently away in Rome, and Michele knew that his mother wouldn’t get off work until the evening, so he would have the place to himself.

Michele and his family lived in a small house that jutted out of the steep slopes below town that led, eventually, down to the coast. As such, he made his way down onto a meandering and shady flight of steps that descended the steep hill between old stucco villas and high stone walls from which tufts of valerian grew.

After a while, he emerged on a quiet road that zig-zagged its way down the hill below the town. As he emerged from the confines of the narrow lane, the sapphire blue sea came into view, twinkling at the foot of the mountains.

Crossing the hot and dusty road, he descended again into a further cluster of buildings and made his way through a chaotic maze of alleys and courtyards until he located the top floor entrance to his home. Michele let himself in.

Michele’s parents had never managed to install air conditioning, but the house still was refreshingly cool, providing a welcome respite from the fierce sun. The kitchen and living area were positioned on the upper floor to make the best of the view; shedding his trainers, Michele padded across the ceramic tiled floor and approached the tall window, which he opened, pushing back the shutters outside so he could stare out towards the blue horizon. Below, a small sun terrace lined with pot plants opened out from the ground floor bedrooms.

The moment that Toto had kissed him was still etched vividly on his mind, and it was almost as if he could still feel the unexpected touch of his friend’s lips on his. Now that he had calmed down, he found he couldn’t explain his strong reaction, but the thought of it still wouldn’t go away.

I didn’t want this. What were you thinking, Toto? Since when has it been like that between us?

Had Michele said or done something to give Toto the wrong idea? He shook himself. No, of course he hadn’t.

He left me.

Toto had fled from his father and had left Michele behind. Whatever Toto might have thought they had, it had surely broken at that moment.

No… it broke when I pushed him away.

Michele didn’t understand. He felt hurt and betrayed, but also desperately sad.

Do I even have a best friend any more?

His mind was still replaying the moment Toto had kissed him, and he scratched distractedly at his chest and arms, trying to drive the confusing feelings out.

He would have done anything to undo the last hour.

* * *

Michele took a shower. He thought it would help, but he didn’t manage to wash the afternoon away.

He couldn’t settle to anything. He tried to read, but kept losing his place. He tried the television, but nothing could hold his attention. He even tidied his bedroom.

He wanted to talk to someone, and he realised with a twist of irony that, if it had been about absolutely anything else, the person he would have talked to first was Toto.

Michele’s mother still wasn’t due home for a couple of hours. He considered phoning her at work, but the thought of trying to explain all this over the phone was too awkward by far. Seeking a neutral party, he set out again and slowly made his way back up the hill to the square.

As Michele had hoped, the cathedral doors were open. He climbed the steps and slipped inside into the airy, whitewashed cool of the interior. Sunbeams shone in through high windows above the nave, illuminating motes of dust drifting in the air. There was nobody else about. Michele drifted across the marble floor and sat down in a wooden pew.

Before long, the vestry door opened a priest stepped into the room: a shortish, rotund figure dressed in a simple black gown. He approached the altar and began making a few adjustments to the floral displays around it, apparently unaware that he had a visitor. When he did happen to glance down the aisle of pews, he did a comical double take as he saw Michele sitting there alone.

“Buongiorno, Michele,” he said in surprise, approaching Michele’s pew before glancing out at the lengthening shadows cast by the trees on the far side of the square. “Or should that be buonasera?”

“Buongiorno, father,” Michele replied.

Father Stefano had been the priest here for many years. Michele’s mother had been bringing him to Mass each Sunday since he was little, and over that time the priest had become a friend and adviser to them both, even a surrogate father figure when Michele’s real father was away. At eleven, Michele had done a short stint as an altar boy, until the many hours spent in frocks and gowns had become more than he could bear.

Now, Michele found he was unsure how to broach a difficult subject, and he looked down into his lap, fiddling uncomfortably with his fingernails. Father Stefano sat down on a pew a respectful distance away.

“I sense you are troubled, Michele,” the priest said patiently. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

And so he did. Michele told Father Stefano how the afternoon had started perfectly normally, just two good friends playing videogames, until Toto had abruptly turned around and kissed him. He described Toto’s flight from the apartment and then his own escape to the square. By the time he had finished his story, Michele’s face was hot and he could feel tears threatening to break forth from the corners of his eyes. He fought hard to restrain them.

Father Stefano had listened attentively throughout.

“Do you know what became of Toto afterwards?” he asked. Michele shook his head.

“No, father.”

The priest sighed. “I suspect neither of you are having the most pleasant of afternoons,” he said.

Good, the injured part of Michele thought, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

“It’s wrong, isn’t it, father? What happened,” Michele said falteringly. “Two boys can’t… it’s not allowed.”

Father Stefano was silent for a moment. “That is a question of personal conscience.” He paused. “Do you…?”

“No,” Michele replied quickly, a flush of embarrassment reddening his hairline. “That’s not me.”

Why does that question bother me so much?

“Michele…” the priest began. “If it were, well… you would not be the first. You must remember Gianni Fortuna and Angelo Rossi?”

Michele nodded. As teenagers, they had briefly been notorious about the town after an incident at Angelo’s older brother’s wedding. As far as Michele knew, the two of them – now in their early twenties – had ridden out the storm and now shared an apartment on the other side of town.

“Michele,” the priest continued, “you haven’t done anything wrong. Your reaction to your friend’s unexpected actions is understandable, although I fear it may have been taken somewhat amiss by young Toto.”

Michele’s mouth twisted. “Why did he have to go and do this?” he said miserably.

The priest smiled. “I’m afraid that, in matters of the heart, we are not always in full control,” he said. “That was certainly the case for young Gianni.”

Michele looked at the floor and ran his hands through his hair. It felt a little better to have spoken to someone.

“Thank you, father,” Michele said dully, and made to leave.

But there’s something else, he thought, and he turned back.

“Father, I… I accidentally told Enzo Palmeri about it. I was still upset when he found me, he was baiting me and it just… slipped out.”

Now Father Stefano did look concerned. “That may not have been wise,” he said. “Enzo can be a dangerous young man.”

Michele nodded. “I know, but… I think I can handle it. I just needed someone to know.”

The priest nodded. “I hope you’re right. Thank you for trusting me, and you know where I am if you need to talk again.” He crossed himself. “May God go with you, Michele.”

Glumly, Michele set off down the aisle. He paused as the priest called out one more piece of advice.

“Michele, you should think about talking to your mother,” he said. “I know Chiara well, and I’m sure she would understand.”

Michele nodded but, now that he had spoken to someone, the thought of going into it all again with his mother made his heart sink. He was tired, and maybe it would be easier tomorrow.

* * *

In the end, he didn’t tell her.

Michele was back in his room by the time his mother arrived home. He felt calmer now but, with it, his urge for secrecy had increased. When she returned from work, still dressed in her tight bar uniform and with her long, wavy black hair still tied back behind her head, he met her in the living room as if nothing unusual had happened.

“Ciao, Mamma,” he said, doing his best to greet her with a smile.

“Ciao, tesoro,” she replied warmly, embracing him and giving him a kiss on each cheek. “How was your day?”

Michele gave a neutral shrug. “Fine, I guess,” he said. “Yours?”

As his mother launched into a weary but cheerful account of the bar’s stranger customers that day and snatches of conversations she had overheard, Michele stayed quiet and listened.

Explanations could wait.