Sunday

Breakfast at the hotel was something to behold.

The buffet seemed to be inspired by just about every culture in western Europe. For the German contingent, there were crusty rolls with slices of mild cheese, salami and ham; for the French and Italian element, the greatest selection of breakfast cakes and fruity pastries that Reza had ever seen; there was even an attempt at a cooked English breakfast, but it looked the least appealing option by far, and things like sausages and bacon were off the menu for Reza and his father anyway. The whole thing was topped off with a flourish by a groaning dish of fresh local fruit and a selection of chilled yogurts and fruit juices.

Reza loaded up a bowl with grapefruit, apricots and natural yogurt, then helped himself to a lemon croissant and a glossy cherry pastry shaped like a giant seashell. Dad opted for a crusty roll with cheese and a slice of a light, fluffy breakfast sponge dusted with icing sugar. Mum sampled the salami with a second crusty roll and a fresh orange, then ordered a cappuccino to go with it.

The breakfast room and bar area were right next to the hotel pool, and their table looked directly out onto its shimmering waters. The sun was already shining brightly in the crystal blue sky, but there was still a freshness to the air that Reza suspected wouldn’t last for long. Above them, the cicadas were already scraping away in the pine trees at the edge of the cathedral square.

“So, we thought we could stay in town today and take a look around,” Dad said. “You know – get a feel for the place.”

“Uh-huh,” Reza grunted.

Mum was consulting a guidebook. “These gardens look beautiful,” she said, pointing to a photograph showing a lush array of shrubs and cypress trees set against a panoramic sea view. Villa Cimbrone, the caption said.

Reza frowned. “Sim-brohn?” he attempted, reading the name as if it were French.

“Chim-bro-nay, silly,” Mum chided.

“Pardon me for not having lived here for three months already,” Reza retorted.

“Oh, Reza…” Smiling, Mum reached out as if to ruffle his hair, but he swatted her hand away.

“Don’t even think about it!” he warned.

“Forgive me, sweetie,” Mum twinkled. “Anyway, it’s just up the hill from here, apparently. We can walk straight up there when we go out.”

The German family were sitting a couple of tables away. The older of the two sisters had just finished a pastry and was licking the sweet residue from her fingers in a way that Reza found vaguely erotic. He lost himself in the sight of it for a while, until the teenage son caught him watching and glanced his way. Faced with those inquisitive, baby-blue eyes, Reza turned his attention back to his lemon croissant as casually as he could manage, feigning nonchalance.

“Best bring your camera, son,” Dad suggested. “I reckon you might see something pretty gorgeous today.”

“Huh?” Reza replied, looking up a little guiltily. For a moment, he had lost track of what his father was talking about. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

* * *

A few minutes after Reza had returned to his room, there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find his father standing in the corridor with two prayer mats under one arm. Dad was already wearing a traditional prayer cap on his head.

“Aw, Dad… seriously?” Reza protested.

Dad stepped into the room without waiting to be invited, handing Reza a second prayer cap as he did so.

“Well, why did you think we packed these?” Dad responded, eyebrow raised. “To use them as beach towels?”

“But we’re on holiday!”

Dad sighed. “One of these days, you’ll be glad I didn’t let you forget about your faith completely. We barely practice as it is…” He placed a patient hand on Reza’s shoulder. “All I ask is that we pray together twice a week and go to the Mosque once a month. It isn’t much.”

“All right,” Reza grumbled, shoving the prayer hat roughly onto his head. Just when he had got his hair looking perfect, as well…

There was a pause while Dad worked out the correct compass bearing, then they laid out the prayer mats facing the foot of the bed. Down they knelt, and the rituals were observed, reciting the prescribed verses in thanks to Allah.

Reza couldn’t help wondering what the two German girls were doing right now, even as he rebuked his sinful self for doing so in the middle of a chant. One thing was for sure… he was prepared to bet that they weren’t praying.

* * *

A short while later, Reza set out with his parents, dressed in the same skinny jeans and peach shirt as the night before. An expensive digital SLR camera hung from his neck, one of the spoils of his sixteenth birthday back in March.

They spent a few minutes looking at the gift shops then, following signs to the Villa Cimbrone, they began to climb a long, winding flight of steps lined with flowering shrubs that Mum called ‘oleanders’. As they went, she chatted about a ceramic dish with a lemon motif that she had spotted in one of the gift shops, and how it would make a lovely salad bowl for the dining room table.

Reza rolled his eyes once again.

If I ever become so grown-up and boring, shoot me.

After a little while they arrived in the cool, vaulted porch of a religious building of some kind. Mum checked the crude little map in her guidebook and announced it as the Convent of St. Francis.

“St. Francis of Assisi?” Reza repeated dubiously. “I thought that was just a story.”

Mum placed her hands on her hips. “I think the good people of Assisi might take exception to that, Reza,” she replied. “I’ve been there, you know. You really shouldn’t be so casual about other peoples’ beliefs.”

“Okay! Sorry,” Reza replied. “Chill out, Mum.” He glanced around, looking for an open door. “Anyway, where are the sexy young nuns?”

Mum stopped in her tracks, looking vaguely scandalised; Dad uttered a sudden bark of laughter that he just about managed to disguise as a cough. “Ahem… perhaps we should move on.”

The scraping cicadas guided them on as they ascended the quiet staircase, winding between high stone walls and overhanging trees. Passing a small café, they reached a pocket park full of feral cats. Some of them lay flopped in the shade under the benches, while others were more active, washing themselves or each other. Reza whipped out his camera and took a few snapshots, zooming in on the small, skinny animals, capturing their bright green eyes and bristling whiskers.

After that, they passed a restaurant terrace. Draped invitingly with a vine-covered pergola, it boasted a striking view out over the mountains and the sea. Mum and Dad paused to examine the menu with interest and talked about coming back for a sunset dinner towards the end of the week.

Moving on, they paused next to a vegetable garden, where Reza’s camera came out again to capture the dramatic, layered view of the mountains and foothills leading down towards the sea. In the distance, pleasure boats forged back and forth along the coast like ants, leaving a tiny white wake behind them.

When they finally reached the gardens, they paid the entry fee at a small wooden kiosk that was manned a friendly, bohemian-looking woman in her thirties. Armed with their ticket stubs, they began exploring.

Reza had to admit that there was a lot to see and that, with it, there was plenty of material for his camera. Photography was one of the few things in life that he was truly enthusiastic about, and, from that point of view, the gardens were the gift that kept giving. The villa itself was an eclectic and ancient-looking building that boasted a cloister full of gargoyles and other odd little details. Set out along a grand central avenue that was shaded by climbing wisteria and grape vines, the gardens had several different zones, each with its own distinct feel, from formal lawns and rose gardens to informal groves of pine trees. There were strange statues and monuments everywhere, and Reza captured these with determined attention, always looking for the best angle or the most dramatic backdrop. The gardens seemed to be set on top of great a rocky crag of some kind, and sea, mountain and valley views were never far away, offering endless potential for interesting shots.

The terrace, though… that was something else. At the outermost edge of the gardens, a long stone platform had been erected at the top of the cliff. A low masonry wall, lined with marble busts, was all that separated you from a dizzying drop to the terraced foothills below. If you stood back a bit, the statues seemed to float amid an infinity of crystal blue. Even Reza was impressed.

Standing with a hand resting on the warm white marble of one of the busts, Reza dug out his Nokia. There was no harm in trying to make Tania just a little bit jealous, was there?

Firing up the phone’s primitive little camera, Reza made sure it was working then, biting his top lip in concentration, he placed his finger on the middle button, flipped the phone round and tried to line himself up for a selfie.

Dad came up to him. “You’ll dislocate a finger or something,” he chuckled. “Here, let me.”

Reza nodded. “All right. Thanks, Dad.”

Reza placed his camera carefully down out of shot. Standing up straight, aiming to look as cool and elegant as he could, he posed next to one of the marble busts with the sea view behind him. There was an artificial ‘click’ as Dad took the photo, then he handed the phone back to him.

Reza sent the crude photo to Tania with a short message. ‘Pretty sick, huh?’

“The cost of that MMS is coming out of your allowance,” Dad remarked.

“Yeah, whatever, Dad,” Reza bantered automatically.

Tania’s reply arrived at once. ‘so yr enjoying yrself, then? totes jells, but i guess thats wot u wanted lol. xx’

Reza smirked. ‘U know me 2 well. ’

The Nokia chimed one more time. ‘nice shirt btw. xx’

They returned to the cathedral square a while later. Mum and Dad said they were going to head back to the hotel for a while so they could take a short break from the sun and enjoy a glass of cold water before heading out for lunch.

Reza glanced around at the artfully scruffy old buildings, the soaring umbrella pines and the panoramic views across the great, sun-drenched valley.

“I’m going to stay out here for a bit…” he replied, “you know, get some more photos.”

“All right,” Dad replied. “We’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”

Reza nodded. “Sure, okay.”

Mum grinned with just the faintest trace of knowing satisfaction. “I’m glad you like it here, sweetie.”

Reza glared playfully at her. “I didn’t say that, Mum,” he replied, but he smiled slightly as they turned away.

Once they had gone, Reza wandered over to the railings and paused in the welcome shade of the pine trees. Unable to resist the temptation, he glanced down at the oblique view of the hotel pool.

Five golden bodies were stretched out on the sun loungers. He was pretty sure he knew who they were.

No WAY… they’re there already?!

Suddenly, Reza wanted desperately to be down there himself as well, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. If he was right in his assumptions about the German family, they would be there all day. There would be plenty of time to see the two sisters again later.

He picked up his camera and wandered back into the square a little, aiming to snap some photos of the cathedral, whose white paintwork glowed brightly in the late morning sun, but then he faltered as he heard quiet giggling from behind him.

He turned curiously. It was the two local boys from last night, he realised: they were sitting close together on a stone bench at the edge of the square, laughing at some private joke.

Reza frowned slightly. There was something a little odd about their energy… they seemed very wrapped up in one another. Then, Reza’s eyes widened as he realised that the spiky-haired boy had one of his hands in the other boy’s pocket! In fact, they both had a hand in there.

Unfortunately, the second boy chose that moment to glance up, and Reza was caught looking. Reza cringed a little, rendered uncharacteristically shy by that keen blue stare.

The blue-eyed boy smirked a little. “Hi,” he said.

The spiky-haired boy looked up as well, appraising the new arrival with amused interest.

“Uh… hi,” Reza replied uncomfortably. “How did you know I’m English?”

The blue-eyed boy grinned. “Come on. Skinny jeans, white trainers, extreme awkwardness, great big SLR camera… totally obvious.”

Caught off-guard, Reza suddenly realised that the blue-eyed boy was speaking with no trace of an accent. “Wait a minute… you’re English too?”

The boy shrugged. “I was once, now I’m not,” he replied enigmatically. “I’m Gianni,” he went on. Inclining his head towards the spiky-haired boy next to him, he added, “this is Angelo.”

“Reza,” Reza replied uncertainly.

“Ciao,” the boy called Angelo chipped in, smirking slightly. “Piacere.”

Reza glanced uncertainly from one boy to the other. “What were you two whispering about, when you saw me last night?” he asked.

The boy called Gianni snickered. “Only that you’re kinda hot,” he replied.

“I… what?” Reza replied, instantly flustered. His eyes fell back to the two boys’ hands, which were still nestled in Gianni’s shorts pocket. “The two of you, you’re… you know, aren’t you?” he said.

Gianni drew their hands out into the open. The two boys held them up for Reza to see.

“Boyfriends, yeah,” Gianni replied. “Does it bother you?”

“Umm… none of my business, I guess,” Reza replied, still flustered. “Only, have the two of you ever, you know…?” he tailed off, horrified at himself.

Oh, man… WHY did I ask them that?

The two boys exchanged a knowing glance.

“Oh, noooooo,” Gianni replied in a highly exaggerated fashion, and then they both broke off into a fresh fit of the giggles.

“Umm… okay,” Reza replied, now highly embarrassed. It was time to retreat before he shamed himself any further. “I’m going to… you know, go, now.”

“It was nice to meet you!” the boy called Gianni called after him, and then Reza heard them burst out laughing again. Reza retreated with his camera, feeling decidedly red in the face.

That had not gone the way he had intended.

* * *

To Reza’s relief, Gianni and Angelo had moved on by the time his parents came to meet him for lunch. They found a restaurant opposite the gift shops, where Reza took a risk on a seafood linguine. When the waitress placed the steaming plate in front of him, he stared at it with fascination. The glossy pasta, flecked with finely chopped parsley and scattered with freshly grated parmesan cheese, groaned with cherry tomatoes, pale squid rings, shiny black mussels and sinister-looking clams, and was topped off with the purple tentacles of a baby octopus. Reza had never eaten so much seafood in one sitting before, but it turned out to be salty and rather good.

After lunch, as the hottest part of the day loomed, Reza and his parents retreated to the hotel.

It was finally time to head to the pool. In the privacy of his bedroom, Reza changed into his swimming shorts, pausing to check himself out in the bathroom mirror to make sure he looked presentable.

He danced a little from side to side, checking himself out from various angles and adjusting his soft black hair. Yes, he was in pretty good shape. Time to go.

Wrapping a large white towel around his shoulders for decency’s sake, he donned a pair of Crocs and set out for the lobby, earning a courteous nod from the young receptionist who was on duty there. He made his way down the internal staircase until he came out on the bar terrace, then cast his eyes around the poolside area, searching for the perfect spot.

He found it in the far right hand corner, where there were a few free sun loungers under the dappled shade of a small tree. The German family were still lined up in the sunniest spot on the other side of the pool, and he would have the perfect vantage point from which to watch the two sisters without being too obvious.

Reza made his way to the corner and laid his towel out on one of the sun loungers, before shedding his Crocs and reclining back against the headrest. The sun cast dappled patterns on his olive skin. One of the advantages of his heritage, he supposed, was that you didn’t have to worry so much about sunburn. The fairer-skinned German family had probably already plastered themselves with sun cream several times today.

The mother was doing lengths in the pool, swimming up and down with a laid-back breaststroke. The father was tapping away at a laptop computer, fully engrossed in whatever he was doing; Reza wondered if he was a writer. Both teenage daughters were dressed in stylish two-piece swimsuits: they each had a book open in front of them and were reading them intently. As Reza watched, the older girl flicked her highlighted locks behind her ears and stretched appreciatively in the sun, giving Reza a strangely warm feeling inside. As a family, they seemed quite oblivious to his interest.

Not all of them, though. The teenage son, who was also just wearing trunks, was reclining on his sun lounger with his hands behind his head, baring his lean and lightly muscled figure, and he was watching Reza. As Reza caught his eye, the boy smiled slightly, before casting his bright blue gaze skywards. Reza began to feel embarrassed again.

Why does he keep looking at me like that?