Crossing the line - 15. A villa in Italy

Flying business class got us refreshments on the plane, served in pottery rather than plastic, but the most significant thing was that we’d sailed through security. When it came to travelling, we found Dan, and I had a similar sense of time. We were both early, I arrived to find Dan already there, looking dapper in a new outfit, the result of a quick dash to the shops. Dan was a most unenthusiastic shopper and I’d selected the outfits that he’d objected to least.

Verona airport was small and seemed to cater mainly for package-tours. So, amidst the various ‘Sunshine Tours’ and ‘Venice Travel’ signs, we spotted a neat middle-aged Italian woman holding up a card with my name on it.

Elena was our contact, brisk and business-like, yet not unfriendly and rather expensively stylish when it came to dress. She was driving a tiny Fiat, just enough room for the three of us plus luggage. She checked on our flight, then proceeded to business. Tomorrow, Monday, we were free as the museum was closed. There would be a car at our disposal; we had driving licences? (As Dan pointed out later, it was a bit late to check for that). The car was one that was provided for the Villa’s guests. We would be living in one of the guest pavilions in the garden. We were welcome to look around the gardens at any time. The owners enjoyed sharing them.

On Monday evening there was a reception at the Villa where I would be able to meet some of the people responsible for the exhibition. I exchanged a smile with Dan, and he mouthed ‘Obligations’. On Tuesday we would visit the exhibition, and the curator would be there. Clearly, someone had really gone to town, pulling strings and getting things done. I wondered whom; I almost asked Elena, but Dan asked about the Villa and the remainder of the journey was a description. Elena was both knowledgeable and enthusiastic.

--oOo—oOo—

Villa Torronia was a second-rank 18th century villa that by the 20th century had fallen on hard times. The story, post-war, was one of retrenchment followed by gradual reclamation. Restoration of the fabric, the development of a modern house within the historic interiors, and the creation of a new garden. I could see that Dan was intrigued by the garden, but by the time we arrived it was too dark to get the feeling of anything bar clipped hedges and geometric layout.

The Villa was square, and leading away from it in two staggered pairs, were four pavilions, the nearest two used at guest accommodation. So, we were staying in the garden, more, we were part of it, the pavilions and the hedges linking them to the Villa were a big structural element, but we were miles from the car parking in the modern service yard tucked well away.

Our pavilion had a stylish modern interior; entering it, we left the 18th century behind. There was a kitchen and open living area with stairs to a mezzanine containing both bed and bathroom. Fairly standard, but high end. And there was a bottle of local wine waiting for us, with cheese, bread, and salami. Everything we might need for a late-night feast.

Outside the pavilion there was a stone bench, and we sat there in the near dark with light from the windows, and marvelled; neither of us usually stayed in places like this.

“Must cost a packet to run a place like this.”

I shrugged, “Don’t ask me, art critics don’t usually get put up in splendour.”

Dan chuckled, “Enjoy it while it lasts?”

“Dead right.”

“Still, makes you wonder.”

“Come on, let’s give them the benefit of the doubt.”

We were silent for bit, drinking wine and eating salami and cheese, looking at the dim outlines of the garden.

“Reminds me of that film, the one with the music.”

“Whilst your eloquence is astounding, you’ll have to give me a bit more than that.”

He laughed, “Draughtsman’s Contract, that’s it.”

“Different era and style, but yes…”

“All those hedges and that, imagine a bloke in a wig creeping round.”

“And a dead body just behind.”

“Don’t.” He paused, “How long do you reckon it takes to trim all that lot.”

“Cut the grass and rake the gravel.”

“Hell to live in.”

“Nice to visit.”

It might be impractical in many ways, and there would be obligations. But it was most definitely Romantic. I grabbed Dan’s hand, and he leaned over and kissed me. It was definitely Romantic.

--oOo—oOo—

We found the drawback next morning as the estate or whatever started work early. Noises drifted, but we dozed until it was time to get up. Strong coffee and breakfast, again looking at the garden; Dan stood in the doorway, thankfully decent in t-shirt and loose cotton trousers.

“They don’t believe in flowers, do they?”

I laughed, “It’s all about design, good lines, colour and texture.”

“But in Summer, it must be a nightmare to keep green.”

“You are looking at a living luxury item.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced.

From somewhere in my library, he’d discovered a book about Beth Chatto and her drought-tolerant gardening. I’ve no idea where the book came from, but Dan had been intrigued. This garden certainly wasn’t drought tolerant, quite the opposite. But it was stylish to within an inch of its life. The Villa’s rectangular block had arches at ground floor and first floor level, forming loggias rather than it having an external portico. The outside was painted an unfortunate mustard yellow colour, not a warm yellow but more Coleman’s Mustard Powder. Perhaps it would mellow?

We finished breakfast and over a final coffee looked the map and planned our day. Then dressed and fit to be seen, we went for a walk round the garden. There was more to it than first appeared, and stylish area opened out of stylish area, areas delineated by gravel and stone, lawn was to be appreciated for its shape, the way the design contributed to the whole, rather than as something to luxuriate on with bare feet. The whole was, frankly, a bit too stripped down for my taste, too lacking in the more frivolous statues that a real Baroque garden would have, and I could see Dan was unimpressed, too much hedge and lawn and not an herbaceous border in sight.

We were walking back towards the main house when a figure appeared from the ground floor loggia. She walked towards us, and I recognised the sleek hair, the trim figure, the band-box understated elegance, even at this time of day. It was Suki.

“Good morning”, she smiled and greeted us as if it was quite natural to meet here. “I trust you slept well.”

“Very well, thank you, until the rubbish lorry arrived.”

She laughed, “They start early here, I always travel with ear-plugs.”

This was slightly surreal, what I really wanted to ask was, why the hell are you here, why are we here?

She continued, “I’m glad I spotted you. Come for coffee and we can chat about your plans”, she smiled, twinkled almost, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty.”

It was a bit like a royal command; Dan rolled his eyes behind her back, and I grinned. I’d warned him our time wouldn’t be our own.

We sat in the loggia, a space that had been seriously done over by a designer, when all you wanted was a few basket chairs and a couple of lemon trees. At least Suki and Dan sat down, but she sent me to take a peek at the main hall. The loggia led directly to the double height central hall, with the ground and first floor loggias on the garden and entrance fronts providing the light. The room had suffered in the past, and the interior designer rather than doing a full restoration, had kept the distressed plasterwork, and made it a feature. As a room it had all the designer-y elements I hated, but the pictures – two large ones on the non-window walls, each flanked by two smaller ones – made my mouth water.

Italian Futurists, some serious money and someone with quite an eye. You forgot the designer’s ‘look at me’ and saw only the pictures. The big ones were simply swirls of kaleidoscopic colour until you paid attention and realised that there were people, it was all about movement, dance perhaps. Completely intoxicating, they changed the room’s dynamics in a way that might have surprised the original builders, but then we had no idea what the Villa’s builders did with it, and I tried to imagine the room with the 18th century equivalent of Francis Heyward’s daringly explicit pictures. But I caught a thread of Suki’s voice, quizzing Dan about the garden, what did he think? He probably didn’t need rescuing, but I hurried back to find him making polite noises.

“What he’s too polite to say is that his idea of a garden is one with lots of flowers, and preferably an herbaceous border or two.”

“Oh, I see”, and she laughed, but I could tell she was disconcerted. “My son-in-law designed the garden. He trained with Giorgio Martinelli and is starting to make a name for himself. The Villa gardens have been widely praised.”

Oh shit, time for some smarm, I’d have to explain later to Dan that Giorgio Martinelli was just the trendiest modern Italian garden designer. So, I commented that the gardens fitted exactly with the Villa’s aesthetic, the sense of new and old, blah, blah, blah. She simpered, taking the praise for her son-in-law as reflecting on her.

“I’m so pleased. Paola and Tony”, whom I remembered owned the house, “are dear friends, Paola and I were at school together. I recommended Ornella Muti to them, to design the interiors, and aren’t her designs superb, you’ll love the other rooms, but I feel she has really caught the spirit of the place in the hall.”

“And spectacular pictures too.”

“Paola’s Father was a noted collector, much of his collection went to the Museo del Novecento in Milano, but Paola kept a few special pictures.”

I was starting to remember. There’d been some sort of tax/financial scandal and Paola’s old man had sweetened things up by donating his pictures. I bet Paola had been spitting mad if the pictures next door were anything to go by. We were interrupted by a middle-aged Italian woman bringing coffee, tiny cups of expresso, and biscuits. Dan looked a bit confounded, too polite to ask, so I did, could we have some milk please. She responded in a friendly manner and milk soon appeared. My Italian is poor, and my accent is atrocious, but Suki had spoken to the servant in Italian (flawless, probably acquired at the finishing school where she met Paola), so I had done so too. Both Suki and Dan were staring at me.

“Sorry, my grammar’s awful and my accent terrible, but as long as it gets me by.”

Dan smiled and shook his head; when the woman returned, he apologised to her (in Italian) for my poor grasp of the language, and she laughed. It was his turn to be stared at by Suki.

“You speak Italian well.”

Dan laughed, embarrassed, “Gran says my accent is terrible, that I sound like a peasant. She’s always bringing me up short when I speak the language.”

“Your grandmother is a teacher?”

“Good grief, no; she’s Italian. I come from an Italian family, though Dad”, he touched his blond hair, “was a stray pick-up of Mum’s, an Irish bloke who must have had Viking blood. Hence the hair and the surname”.

Suki’s response was simply, “Oh, I see.”

I wasn’t sure if it was Dan’s casualness about the whole thing, his Mum’s haphazard love-life or the fact of Dan’s Italian heritage that confounded her. Or perhaps a bit of all three. We were saved by the Italian woman reappearing with questions.

Suki apologised, “Paola and Tony are arriving at lunchtime, as Tony had an important business meeting. I came early to open up the house, but of course there are lots of things to be decided, do excuse me.” And she wafted off, releasing us.

--oOo—oOo—

“What do you reckon the set-up is there?”

Having finally been able to leave, we headed West. Dan was driving, but Italian roads didn’t blunt his curiosity.

“Suki would have us believe that she and Paola are bosom buddies and she’s doing it as a friend.”

“Just like she and Mr H are bosom buddies.”

“Yep. I reckon Suki lives through her richer friends, and the contacts they provide.”

“Well, her son-in-law seems to have done OK for himself.”

“If he’s worked with Giorgio Martinelli then he’s probably a clever boy.”

“Who’s this Martinelli bloke; I gather he’s an Italian garden designer.”

“Came to the fore about 20 years ago, combines tradition, style and some modernism. Very popular with monied folk; he provides gardens which tone with the style of your chateau, villa or whatever. Just like the interior designer, Ornella Muti.”

“Who did up the house. She certainly gussied it up something rotten.”

I laughed at Dan’s use of the word gussied, we both did. But we agreed. “Presumably I’m here because dear Paola and Tony are big patrons of the exhibition in the Castelvecchio, and Suki mentioned to them that her dear friend Francis Heyward knew a friendly critic.”

Dan grinned, “Are critics friendly?”

“Well, this one tries to be civilised, at least. My table manners are good enough for the swankiest parties.”

“Aren’t they all?”

I laughed, “Let’s not go there, shall we!”

--oOo—oOo—

It was a magical day. We were tourists, pure and simple. We drove to Malcesine, on the Eastern side of Lake Garda. Coffee by the harbour was followed by a wander round the sights including a Medieval palazzo and the castle, which is not only picturesque and old, but has some association with Goethe being arrested for spying, or something. Lacking a lake-side walk and not fancying the cable car, we hired a boat for the rest of the day, including a guy who drove it - do you drive boats? It was pricey, but it meant that we could go where we wanted, when we wanted.

The guy, Luigi, was young-ish, handsome in a battered way with terrible teeth. He brightened up when he discovered that Dan spoke Italian, and he certainly knew some terrific places. He was keen for us to have a swim, but we had no costumes as it hadn’t occurred to us. ‘No problem’ (one of his favourite English phrases), and we anchored in a quiet, stunningly picturesque bay and slipped down into the sea from the boat (on my part, not quite as elegantly as the phrase suggests). It was bracing in the water but thrilling, and magical. We stopped for much needed refreshment at a little harbourside place across the lake from Malcesine. There was no art, no architecture, no gardens; just lake, sun and mountains, and there was even an awning for Dan to sit under out of the direct sunlight.

For all our apparent freedom, Luigi had a clear idea of what we ought to see, but I couldn’t fault his taste in scenic coves and such. We were heading back, and I was dozing, when I heard Luigi questioning Dan in Italian. The phrase didn’t register at first but then something clicked, Christ he was asking us if we were queer. Though I couldn’t swear whether the phrase he used had positive or negative connotations.

Suddenly things got very cool, and we both tensed up. Stuck out in the middle of Lake Garda on a homophobe’s boat was not a pleasant prospect. We must obviously have relaxed and let our guard down a bit too much. But Luigi was smiling and when Dan cautiously nodded, Luigi’s smile became dazzling, “Bene, bene.” And he proceeded to explain that they’d recently had a big party to celebrate his kid brother getting married to his boyfriend. Presumably not in Italy, did they have gay marriage there? Yes, they did, evidently; unione civile, civil unions, he was pleased to tell us. He seemed delighted to be able to share the news with a gay couple, and insisted we have a drink with him.

So, once the boat was moored back in Malcesine, he led us to a bar in a side street and there was a drink with him, with much ceremony. He wanted to know if we were getting married, and Dan, going pink, had to explain that we had not got that far yet. Luigi, it seems, was a big proponent of marriage, he was married to his childhood sweetheart (a woman), and it was so good that his kid brother could do the same. We managed to tear ourselves away and get back to our pavilion in the gardens without being waylaid.

It’s funny but we’d been talking marriage and relationships only recently. Whilst we had been back to the boots-only afternoon at The Anvil we had also felt like a change and found ourselves in a busy function suite attached to a gay pub. It was hosting a boots-only evening, a use that the illustrious Edwardian builders could not have imagined. Once you got over the novelty of a pub bar full of naked men, and the fact that there was a dark room, it was just a change of scenery, the m/o was the same. But the locals were friendly, too friendly almost, it was a less hard-core crowd than The Anvil and we’d found a few rather too keen to join in our fun, uninvited.

In the unlikely surrounds of a bar full of naked men, we ended up having a discussion about threesomes, fidelity, marriage and more. Thankfully, we both seemed to be in general agreement, though coming from completely different outlooks. Threesomes were OK, if planned, but in no sense an open relationship. Dan had a conventional enough outlook not to be comfortable with the idea, and I’d got my fingers burned (and a lot else besides) a few times when guys I’d met in clubs suggested meeting up again and suddenly produced their other halves.

Dan had looked at me and said that he was in this for the long haul and that he hoped I was too. Embarrassed, I’d made a bit of a joke of it, saying ‘Brave man’, but I’d kissed him and said that I was. Marriage was on the cards, sometime; though I pointed out that we didn’t even live together yet. We planned for Dan to spend more time at my place, but I was horribly aware that I had arranged the house to suit my single existence. If he had his own room (whether separate bedroom or just a study, he’d need something of his own) then our only lounge space could be my study/library.

Compromises would be needed. Then there was Dan’s flat, it wasn’t in a most attractive area, and might be difficult to let. Perhaps it might suit students, or alternatively he could buy something near me, or maybe we should look to buy something together, a bigger place. I joked that the ideal would be somewhere with a shed at the bottom of the garden to use as Dan’s own space. He’d laughed, but I could see the idea appealed. Now someone else had asked us about marriage.

Back at the Villa, I lay on the bed, answering yet another of Francis Heyward’s emails about his pictures. I’d sent him my report and followed this up with further discussions, but he had constant questions and ideas. I was beginning to wonder if I should submit a bill for my time. Next to me, Dan was reading one of the volumes from my Father’s pocket edition of Gibbon, light reading indeed.

“Do you reckon that Mr H would let us use The Manor if we got married?”

I looked across at Dan; where had that come from? “Would you want to? Besides, it might not be licensed. It probably isn’t.”

“Hmm. We could still have a reception there. It’d be cool, the gardens, those Donald Mitchells, that Norman James that’s going up in the Marble Hall.”

“What would your Gran and the relatives think of that. And what would Mother make of it all?”

“Sod the relations, that’s usually Gran’s view, especially after Mum had me with nary a husband in sight. Gran’d tut, but she’d then start on how he looked starved and in need of a good meal.”

We laughed, and I tried to picture it, and failed. And I certainly could not imagine Mother in amongst the nubile male splendour of The Manor, though Dan was far more sanguine, saying she’d take it in her stride. And besides, she and Gran could tut together. The sheer thought!

“Look. A pact, once we agree on doing the deed, then you can ask him. OK?”

“Fair enough.” He scratched his groin; we weren’t wearing anything, it was cool and pleasant like that, not to mention giving us scope for more suggestive activities, but Dan had other ideas this time, “You fancy a swim?”

“A swim?”

“Well, when we were wandering round this morning, we saw that pool and both Elena and Suki said we should take advantage of the garden.” He grinned at me rather mischievously.

“OK. There’s the small matter of swimming trunks.”

He grinned again, “We could wear our knickers, but I reckoned if it was quiet, we could swim au naturel.”

I stared at him, Dan had been really loosening up recently, and such ideas were a delightful result. Part of me twinged, the part who dutifully followed the full itinerary on press tours when colleagues bunked off. But this wasn’t a real press tour and they had said…

“You’re on.”

The pool was in a hedged enclosure to the side of the main garden. It was simple and delightful, no pool house just clipped hedges, pool, terrace, and grass, plus a few slightly risqué statues of dubious provenance; everything was straight lines and beautifully clean edges.

There was no-one about. Dan made it clear that he had no intention of lounging in the sun without any sunscreen; his skin wouldn’t take it. So, it was a quick dash into the water. We stripped off and slipped in, and it felt lovely. There was something decadent about swimming naked in such an idyllic location.

“It didn’t ought to be decadent; there’s no reason why we shouldn’t swim naked all the time”, Dan grinned but he had a point.

“Perhaps we should find a naked swimming club?”

“Are there such things?”

“There used to be. I think the Gay Outdoor Club used to run one, back in the day. I know older guys that had been members – cruising, gossip, and not much real swimming, as far as I can tell.”

“Does it still exist?”

“That one doesn’t, I think, but there might be others.”

“What do we do now if someone comes in?”

“Here? Act as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

Luckily no-one did, and we had the time to ourselves, though I didn’t risk any backstroke. It was a magical early evening, the sun still warm, the golden hour. But we couldn’t linger too long, we had obligations. The delight of a party at the Villa where I would have to dutifully chat to people about Moroni and the exhibition, though we would both be on show.