On being naked, sleepless and bitten in Verona …

I am told a story about a man who goes to visit his mother’s grave at Cimitero Monumentale di Verona. He stands before it in prayer and then drops dead himself, overcome by the heat.

The problem with this story is that I have heard it before.

There was the case of a man in the town of Garlasco, near Milan, who collapsed while standing at his parents’ grave. In Naples, another was found slumped across his father’s tomb.

In Italy, they sometimes try to outdo one another, and that makes it difficult to distinguish fact from fiction.

The heat, however, is real enough.

The Italian health ministry has been issuing its maximum Level 3 red alert — known as the bollino rosso — for cities across the country, including Verona.

The heatwave is being driven by the African anticyclone known as “Cerberus”, bringing temperatures with little variation between day and night and daytime highs of up to 40°C.

For now, the apartment where I am staying is woefully unprepared. There is no air conditioning, only a collection of small electric fans that offer little respite. 

Signora Bruschi insisted that I keep the wooden shutters closed to block out the sun. She also instructed me to keep the windows shut.

I ignored her.

I needed fresh air.

Now the heat from outside has permeated and made the room unbearable.

I sleep naked, but sleep itself has become impossible. The nights are spent tossing and turning in my own sweat. When I wake, I discover that aggressive tiger mosquitoes, which are supposedly creatures of the day, have spent the night feasting on me. My body is covered in bites and an unsightly heat rash stretches across both arms.

Alas, I no longer feel beautiful. A plain, white-skinned English boy like me can only dream of the cold, the rain and, perhaps, even snow.

On the three naked butts …

Italian boys are more cultured than English and German boys.

Severin, the German boy, and I, the English boy, have not forgotten those hurtful words.

Over time, Severin and I have found each other like long-lost brothers. Recently he heard from Elio — the chosen one — who has discovered a diary belonging to Pietro.

Inside was the following entry:

“Elio is the lover I have always wanted, but he is spoiled and without scruples. Perfect for me. Severin is cute but stupid. He will do whatever I want him to. Miles could be wonderful, but he always thinks with his dick. There is no loyalty there.

“But I love them all, and I call them my three naked butts.”

On Thomas and the Paris heatwave …

Thomas messaged me from Paris, where the temperature had become stuck at 40°C. He had covered his windows with emergency blankets to keep the heat out, though this also prevented him from seeing the world beyond them.

“It is hot and gloomy,” he moaned.

His girlfriend, Ambre, had abandoned her apartment in Batignolles. Poor insulation and a lack of external shutters had turned it into an oven. “The blazing sun hit her windows all day — she couldn’t breathe and felt dizzy because there was no air,” he explained.

“I have a headache all the time and now we must walk around my rooms completely naked,” he added, clearly for my benefit.

The image of Thomas — tall, skinny and entirely unclothed — was not an unpleasant one.

“And Léo was arrested for possessing drugs and had to spend the night in a police cell where temperatures reached more than 43°C.”

I was tempted to ask Thomas whether the heat had prompted Léo to shed his clothes as well and, if so, whether such a display might have proved provocative to his fellow prisoners.

Thomas signed off with a question:

“Are you missing me?”

On the boy by the water …

A cold stream. Stepping stones. It attracted students from Università degli Studi di Verona. If fashion models of either sex were to be discovered anywhere, this was the place to find them.

Nakedness was almost a prerequisite.

Gods and goddesses baked beneath a merciless sun, seeking relief in fast-running water, plunging into deep pools and sunbathing in temperatures that might well kill them. Youth does not concern itself with such things until it is too late.

I sat beneath the shade of the only tree.

I love the sun, but the sun does not love me. It burns me at the slightest opportunity. I had no desire to move because all around me was visual heaven. A multiple-choice examination in beauty: who was the most handsome, the sexiest, the most likely.

My eyes settled upon a young man wearing pale blue striped shorts that clung to his buttocks from the dampness. His hair was swept back as though he belonged on the streets of Milan. I could not see his eyes because they were hidden behind wraparound sunglasses.

But it was his body that held my attention.

His soft, undeveloped chest. His slim frame. The perfectly proportioned legs he stretched out before him. He was the colour of a bronzed angel, without a blemish to be seen.

He lay upon a rock below me, water rushing around him, and I wanted to take his photograph but dared not because it would have seemed too obvious.

He assumed I was looking at him, just as I assumed he was looking at me, though neither of us could be certain.

If I had been forced to choose anyone there, he would have been the one.

Then he turned his head and smiled.

I smiled back, though I could not be sure the smile had been intended for me.

He lay back and the water rose around him. For a moment I thought I could detect the suggestion of an erection, though that may simply have been the product of an overactive imagination.

He sat upright again and flicked back his hair. His profile caught the light.

Then he shouted up and asked me for the time.

Four o’clock.

All was well.

A voice in my head suggested that a little flirtation was taking place. But I knew better than that. I knew the type of boy he probably was. He knew he was beautiful and, perhaps, enjoyed the effect he had on others. A fly-catcher, drawing us in simply for the pleasure of watching us hover.

I got up to find my friends and smirked as I stepped past him.

I decided to love him only as a memory.

On waiting for the fall …

We wait for the one who built the empire to fail.

We, the loyal followers, are waiting for the collapse. It cannot be far away.

And when it comes, we, the loyal followers, will make our move.

On the cute and willing…