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One of the most important things I’ve learned is to ignore what people say

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Bleak January. A place that is appropriately called a Winter Garden. Full of absent people. I come and sit here everyday while I drink my takeaway coffee. I always take the lid off because drinking it through that tiny slot takes forever and makes coffee dribble down my chin.

‘Red socks’, sits on the bench opposite and looks handsome from a distance. But why is he wearing red socks? He’s deep in conversation with a Chinese girl who looks bored and takes sips from a bottle of Pepsi Max Lime that will be  warm by the time she finishes it. I wonder what he’s saying to make her look so listless. Occasionally she looks over as if to say, “please swap places with me.”

Between us, a mouse keeps running between flower beds. Backwards and forwards it goes and nobody takes any notice. This is a brave mouse that likes living under exotic leaves but can’t decide which is the best. I hope that the Chinese girl might notice the mouse and scream loud enough to stop ‘‘Red Socks’ talking for a moment. But she fails to see it because she is on the verge of falling asleep.

A well-dressed black boy comes over and asks if he can sit beside me. I tell him that I don’t own the bench and make room. He introduces himself and I immediately forget his name because he is from Nigeria and it sounds strange. “This is a cool place,” he says, and I suspect that he might be trying to pick me up.

I ask him what he is doing in this country and he says he came to study. I wait for him to say that he is a wealthy Nigerian prince and that he wants to give me ten thousand pounds if I give him my bank details. Instead, he says that he is doing a thesis on his country. “What do I know about Nigeria?” I disappoint him and say that I’m the wrong person to ask because I’m half-witted. He gets up and leaves and I realise that I could have said that I thought that everyone in Nigeria was a prince who wanted to give money away to people who provided their bank details.

A young guy walks by with someone who I presume to be his girlfriend. He’s devilishly attractive and I instantly dislike her. I consider getting rid of her by being the first person to commit a murder inside this winter garden with an impatient mouse, a guy who wears red socks, the bored Chinese girl, and a Nigerian who could have been a prince but wasn’t. 

When they pass, two scruffy fellows follow. One of them is explaining about a giant palm tree that almost touches the glass roof. About how the leaves die and form protection around the trunk. I find myself looking at the tree and speculate what will happen if it grows any higher because there isn’t much room left. The other guy looks uninterested like the Chinese girl did, and then I realise that she has disappeared with ‘Red Socks’ because their bench is empty.

A lad with blue tints in his hair comes and sits beside me. I look at all the empty benches and wonder why he’s chosen to sit on the same one as me. Once again, I think that someone might be trying to pick me up. He has a bad cough, as bad as the blue streaks in his hair. He notices me looking, says “Hi,” and I think that he will be good looking once he’s got rid of the blue streaks. The mouse runs across the floor again.

The lad makes conversation and sounds like a nutter because he says that he likes to choose a person walking in the street, any person, a random person, and follow them to see what they do and where they go. He’s not a stalker, he says, and I make my excuses and say that I must be going back to work. 

“Just like you did, Nido – her great grandson. It is the curse of your family. The curse of the Lombardos.”

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Image: Ugo Mulas

The grey gloom of a rainy afternoon and the empty alleyway is depressing. Only the yellowish headlamp of an ancient Vespa ridden by Salvo the old greengrocer suggests that colour exists in monochrome surroundings. He drives through puddles and looks at us suspiciously.

Marco stands on the step and stares at nothing, because there is nothing there, but his face suggests something different. 

“What do you see?”  

“What do YOU see?” he challenges. I shrug my shoulders. 

“I see sunshine and shadows,” he says. “The heat of a lazy afternoon. Tables and chairs. Miniature olive trees in pots. Young men and women sitting and talking.” He moves his gaze to the crumbling stucco wall. “There is a woman wearing sunglasses who holds a pen in her right hand with a notebook in front of her. There is something in the bag at her feet that holds a dark secret. But she doesn’t want to tell me anything. I want to tell her that from where I stand she is now dead.”

“What else can you see?” I ask.

“The woman opposite her, an old lady now, is reading the Memoirs of Jacques Casanova. The men wear sports jackets and baggy trousers and talk amongst themselves about football and fast cars – Alfa Romeos and Lancias – and the women they want to flirt with. 

“Salvo the greengrocer is a young man, and he leans back on his chair, a Corriere della Sera sticking out of his pocket, and he is talking to a slender woman with long black hair and stiletto heels. She is ignoring him because she senses something but doesn’t know what it is.”

“Who is she?”

“This is your great grandmother and she is looking towards where you stand, but you are invisible to her because you haven’t been born. But she is troubled because something lies in wait that will cause distress to her family. She doesn’t know it yet, but your great grandfather, who sits before her, a philosopher amongst friends, with a violent temper, will kill the man he is talking to. Just like you did, Nido – her great grandson. It is the curse of your family. The curse of the Lombardos.”

Is this the saddest and perfect end? The final act of betrayal never felt so good

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Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.

Have you been sent by someone?
Have you come with a message?
Have you come to taunt me?
Have you come to kill me?

In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.

Have you come with love?
Have you come with hate?
Have you come with both?
Have you come with nothing?

There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?

Have you got a disease?
Have you got a condom?
Have you got a knife?
Have you got other ways of killing me?

They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.

Lust shattered my guard.
Lust drowned my senses
Lust clouded my judgement.
Lust is the death of me.

The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.

I am indebted to you for something you did but have forgotten what it was

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The lady from Wollongong, New South Wales, once said that she would never forget what I did for her son. I paid eight hundred pounds and flew her son back to Australia. She cried when he turned up on the doorstep because she thought she would never see him again. That was twenty years ago. I turned up on your doorstep when it was raining, and when you opened the door I knew that you didn’t recognise me so I reintroduced myself because I needed a place to stay. You told me that you hadn’t a clue who I was and said that you’d call the police if I didn’t go away. I walked into the stormy night and accepted that I could not sink no further. When the demonic koala dropped from a tree and strangled me, I lay in that muddy puddle and thought about that eight hundred pounds which was now worth a million.

Thus with a kiss I might die

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“Amidst the babble and the cackle,

A voice shouts loudest,

I am Romeo and you must come to me.

And I hear that voice,

I say, Verona, at last I am coming to thee.”

That Moment / A crackle of excitement

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That moment was meant to be. A crackle of excitement that bubbled up and brought with it the unwatered lust of these desert years

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous / The only way is to play dirty

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The story so far. Harry Oldham is an author who has been encouraged to return to Sheffield and write about his past. A chance meeting with a stranger called Tom brings back memories of Paolo, ‘one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever known.’ The other Geisha Boys, Andy and Jack, take a backseat as Harry recalls the first time he met him.
(Parts 1-7 are available to read in the menu)

Part 8

It was the night we became Geisha Boys. The night we ran through the streets of Sheffield, laughing, covered in someone else’s blood.

We ran towards our block and didn’t see the two guys getting out of the car. Andy and Jack ran ahead, while I was spitting blood, and out of breath. 

I was grabbed from behind. I shouted to the lads, and they stopped dead in their tracks. They were my brothers, and they would help me. Except that they couldn’t. One of the guys waved a stick at them, a thick one, and warned them off.

“Keep on running you little turds. Because if you don’t, I’ll break your fucking heads.”

The boys hesitated but were powerless to help. They edged away, watching me, and disappeared up the stairs.

“Fuck! Don’t fucking leave me!”

The other guy held me tight. There was the faint aroma of Brut and petunia on him. The man with the cosh waited until Andy and Jack had disappeared and turned to me.

“Let’s get in the car.”

I was bundled into the back of a dark Vauxhall Chevette where there was somebody else. I tried the door handle to escape but it was locked and so thumped the back of  the driver’s seat in frustration.

The two guys got in front. The guy with the cosh was driving. The other one, who smelt of Brut and petunia, wore a flat cap and donkey jacket and looked straight ahead.

“Good evening, Harry,” he said. “The luck we’re having tonight. Who’d have thought it? A brawl in a bar. The aggressors running towards Park Hill. We thought, it couldn’t be?”

The car moved off and the guy beside me was quiet. I caught glimpses of his black curly hair as we passed under streetlights, the orange aura highlighting his dark features. 

“Harry, meet Paolo. He’s a fucking eyetie.”

We drove a short distance and pulled up on a road that looked over the city centre.

Frank Smith got out and opened the rear passenger door. “Out you get.” The lad called Paolo slid out and stretched. “You too Harry.”

He led us through a gap in a stone wall and sat us on a bench while he remained standing and looking like a council workman. The other one leant on the wall and lit a cigarette.

“Look at that view,” said Frank. “A big city with lots of people. Good ones and bad ones. We’re the good guys, but there are more bad guys than we’d like. Which side are you two on?”

Neither of us answered.

“A long time ago this city was run by bad guys. Did you know they called it Little Chicago? It was full of gangsters who thought nothing about kicking the shit out of each other. Then there were the knives and the guns. These were gang wars, the Mooneys and the Garvins, and the police couldn’t control them.

“But somebody sorted it out. Percy Sillitoe was his name. If he’d failed, then life for every respectable citizen would have been hell, but he succeeded and ended up running MI5. Clever bloke. Did you know that I read history boys?”

It was a school lesson forced upon us. We looked at each other in bewilderment and didn’t know what to say.

“Oh yes, I like history. Did you know that it gets twisted? Sanitised. Let’s look at Percy Sillitoe. Hard, focused and determined. That’s what we read today, but he was a scheming bastard, who fought fire with fire.

“I like to think I’m a bit like him. If you did everything by the book, then we’d get nowhere. In years to come, everything will be touchy feely, and I hope I’m not around because justice will side with the villains. Fucking chaos.

“Some people think I’m a bent copper. That hurts. All I want to do is suss out the shit, and the only way is to play dirty. I always get what I want.”

Frank turned to us.

“It’s a bit like the gang wars. The only way to deal with today’s bad guys is to eliminate them.  One by one. Are you with me?”

“What are you on about?” Paolo had spoken for the first time. His English was excellent but there was an unmistakable accent. 

“I need your help. Both of you. Paolo, fucking eyetie, with your boyish looks. Harry, the bad boy with a big flaw running right through him. Do you know what that flaw is, Harry?”

“No,” I replied.

“It’s going to slap you in the face soon.” 

Paolo looked at me, a fellow victim in this charade and his eyes showed fear. I didn’t know what to do. If he had looked closely, he would have seen that I was more terrified than he was.

“Kiss each other.”

What the fuck did Frank just say?

”Fucking kiss each other!” He stormed over and grabbed the backs of our heads. He forced them together until our noses almost touched, but we resisted, and Frank used his strength. Our faces brushed one another. Paolo’s skin was smooth with no sign of facial hair.

“Kiss goddammit!” Frank shouted. “Paolo, bender! You’ll enjoy it. Kiss the scabby shit.”

And Paolo did. A quick peck on the lips before forcing his tongue into my mouth. I couldn’t back away. He wrapped his tongue around mine and I had no choice but to do the same.

There was a flash of bright light, and I realised that the other copper had taken a photograph.

Frank released his grip. “That’s enough,” he  laughed. “I knew you’d both enjoy it. Didn’t I say so Brian? He looked over to his colleague who acted as if nothing had happened . “You see Harry, your eyetie friend likes snogging lads, and I dare say that he finds you attractive. Isn’t that right Paolo?”

The Italian boy was mortified. 

 “A match made in heaven. Now that you’re better acquainted, I’m sure you’ll both help me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Paolo.

“Percy Sillitoe succeeded because he played both gangs against one another. A word in one ear, a word in the other. He didn’t do a thing. It was a set up. And when one gang thought they’d won. he went after them next and destroyed them too.

“These are the eighties, and there are perverts in this city, but as always, there is more than one player. Player One is getting pissed off with Player Two, and so Player One says to me, ‘get rid of these bastards!’ I say that it will cost them, but we work together, and Player Two disappears. Then I come down heavy on Player One, and he disappears too. Get it?”

I was angry. “What the fuck has it got to do with us? We aren’t doing anything for you?”

Frank stared me out.

“I think you’ll both help me.”

“Get fucked!”

“Do you really want your parents to see a photo that shows you going at it with another guy? Better still, what happens if it gets into the hands of your low-life friends? You won’t be able to show your face on Park Hill again.”

The guy called Brian laughed.

“And what will your eyetie parents think when they see that their beloved Catholic boy is really a depraved bender?”

I exchanged nervous glances with Paolo.

“I won’t offer you a lift home because you’ve both got a lot to talk about. Somebody will be in touch.”

The two coppers walked back to the car, but Frank shouted something before driving off. It sounded like, “If they’d have let me, I’d have caught the Yorkshire Ripper years ago.”

At least I have has been

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The scene: a bar. “You shouldn’t be in here,” says the young barman. “And why is that?” “Because you are a has-been.” I am stung, but remember a quote from many years ago. “Well,” I say. “At least I has been.”

Stolen Words/He had already read Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers

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“Strangely, his name was Jean, which he pronounced as the French do, and although just turned 17, he had already read Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers, and believed he was reincarnated from someone who died of an o.d. in 1979 at Studio 54. He knew way too much about that infamous club, and about infamy in general.”

The ‘bicycle thief’ of Manhattan’s West 14th Street Pier/
Fred H. Berger/Propaganda Magazine/Winter 1999

Le Trumpet – high up in the sky the little stars climb

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Benoit was sixteen on the night his grandfather died. He climbed onto the roof, curled up against the warm chimney, and looked over the rooftops of Le Septième.

His grandfather had been ill for months. The tiny bed had been pushed against the window where he would watch the street and its people. In the evenings, Benoit’s mother sat beside him, and talked about old times.

When he died, they both cried.

That night, Benoit listened to the noisy traffic, police sirens, and the animated chatter from Café Maxim below. As it got later, the traffic quietened, and voices were replaced by the clatter of plates being washed in the kitchens. By the early hours, most Parisians were asleep.

It started to rain, and Benoit found the sound of raindrops trickling down the sloping roof strangely reassuring.

The city grew quiet, and the people of Paris slipped into their beds. A church bell chimed one o’clock and Benoit listened carefully.

It was a familiar sound.

A mournful trumpet played across the dark rooftops, and it was his grandfather’s tune.

Benoit thought about the battered old trumpet that still lay beside the empty bed, the one that used to play Stardust.

***

Sebastien was in the market when somebody told him that Landry had died in his bed.  

The news made him sad, and he went for a walk to remember the good times he’d had with the old man.

With a baguette under his arm, he walked beside the river where the fishermen on the bank thought he looked a lonely sight.

When it began to go dark, he walked through the park and kicked autumn leaves like he used to as a little boy.

Sebastien was twenty-two now and was at the Paris Conservatory where he studied classical trumpet.

He thought of the day outside Café Maxim where Landry had showed him the trumpet he’d found in the attic of an old house in Normandy and then taught him how to play it.

And Sebastien played it quite well and was good enough for his parents to buy him a new one that had cost a lot of money.

Sebastien called at Café Maxim and spoke with Landry’s friends. They bought him a beer and ate the baguette that had snapped into two pieces, and they all agreed that they would miss the old Frenchman.

They raised several toasts to Landry, and it was after midnight when Sebastien arrived home.

He climbed the rickety stairs to the flat on the top floor and opened the French windows. The breeze caused the curtains to billow inwards and the first drops of rain started to fall.

He looked at his shiny trumpet and thought about the first tune he’d played.

The clock from the church chimed once, and he put the trumpet to his lips and played in memory of Landry.

It was Stardust.