Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2000 06:54:56 +0900
From: Andrej Koymasky <andrejkoymasky@geocities.com>
Subject: corporal 01

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TRILOGY: ITALIAN BROTHERS
VOLUME 1 THE CORPORAL
by Andrej Koymasky (c) 2000
Written on October 21st 1995
and translated by the Author
English text kindly revised by a friend

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USUAL DISCLAIMER

"ITALIAN BROTHERS 1 - THE CORPORAL" is a gay story, with some parts
containing graphic scenes of sex between males.
So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not
good for you, it will be better not to read this story.

But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think
you really wnt to read it, please be my welcome guest.

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CHAPTER 1 - Enzo Rota

There were already five farmhands sitting in silence, on the steps of
the Mother Church, closed in their thoughts. Enzo set his cloth cap on
his head and leaned against one of the four trees on the square. The
rough trunk of the tree tickled his back pleasurably through the fabric
of his loose shirt. He slipped his hands in his pockets, and the
fingertips of his left hand lightly brushed his thigh through the holes
at the bottom. He always forgot that the pocket was broken, and each
time he was almost surprised to feel the sensation of the bare skin
under his fingertips.

He looked along the Via di Mare, but nobody was coming -- it was still
rather early. Gradually, more farmhands came. Near another tree, a small
group had gathered and the men were talking in low voices. Enzo could
hear their slow, low tone, but couldn't make out any word, and thought
it seemed almost like the subdued muttering of friends in front of a
dead person.

Somebody arriving at the square made a greeting gesture to him, and Enzo
answered with a brief nod and a smile. They all knew each other, at
least by name and appearance -- they were there every workday morning,
hoping to be hired for that day. It didn't always go well, especially
for the older men, or for the less strong. Enzo had some luck. He was
often hired, although not everyday. They knew he was a good worker, and
he was never sluggish. At the beginning, when he had first accompanied
his father, he was not hired often because he was still a kid, and they
were afraid he couldn't handle the hard work. But then, they started to
prefer him to his father as the old man gradually became weak and Enzo
was instead strengthening. His father was now a man on the wane, in bad
shape and in poor health. Once he had been a handsome and strong man.
Also, his mother should have been a beautiful woman, but Enzo didn't
remember her so much, other than the fact that she had a full head of
beautiful golden hair, shining under the sun like the aureole of a
Saint.

His father always talked about her with expressions like "that saint of
a woman, your mother" and Enzo knew that it was not just an idiomatic
expression. Also, their relatives spoke kindly about her and not only
because they felt they had to speak kindly about a dead person. She died
nine years ago, when he was just eight years old. He didn't know why and
how she died. His father just said, "She went out like the lamp when the
oil is burned up." When Enzo tried to ask him about how she died, his
father would become gloomy and would not answer, so Enzo stopped asking
him that question. The relatives also answered with vague expressions
like "God called her to Him because she was too good" or something
similar.

Now the sun was illuminating all the upper part of the front of the
Mother Church, beautiful in its sober decoration of porous white or
black stones, and with a central belfry from where the bell chimed five
strokes. Soon the corporals will arrive to make their picks for the day.
At this point, almost all the farmhands had arrived. Enzo never left his
spot. They would come from the Via di Mare, and they would pass in front
of him. Normally, one of them would point at him and say "you" and Enzo
would be quiet for the remaining of that day.

In the evenings after going back home, he would give his father a coin
so that he could go have a drink. Or rather, he would have "forgotten"
the coin on the kitchen table, so that the man would not be embarrassed
by taking money from his son. It had become a kind of ritual these days.
Then, his father would come back home late in the evening, and Enzo
would pretend that he was already asleep. His father would go near him,
lightly trace the cross sign on Enzo's forehead with his thumb, and
would murmur "God bless you, my son" and then go to his bed to lie down
and sleep. Enzo loved that small domestic ritual. He loved his father.

His father seemed older than his forty-eight years. He seemed like an
old man. "Me, I am used up by life," he said at times with a sad tone
that made Enzo's heart ache. Or rather, it was like a hand seized and
squeezed his guts. He could feel a kind of desperate resignation or
resigned desperation in those words, and that made him suffer. He would
have liked to earn some more money so that he could give his father a
more comfortable life. Nevertheless, he was still lucky that he was
hired almost everyday.

If the corporals didn't hire him on a particular day, Enzo would go
visit all the shops and workshops, offering himself to do various small
jobs, so that he could at least scrap some food, if not coins, to take
back home. But sometimes these visits would yield very little, and he
would go back home feeling dejected, almost like a dog with his tail
between his legs. His father would say nothing on those occasions -- he
knew from personal experience how those things went. So on those
evenings, he would appear merrier than usual, almost like saying to his
son, but without words, that he knew and understood that was life, and
there was no need to worry.

After all, Enzo was lucky because he only had to provide for his father
and for himself. Many other farmhands also had a wife and a number of
children to feed. He was the only child, and for that, he was somewhat
amazed. Although his mother died when he was only eight years old, she
could very well had time to have two, three, or even four more children.
After all, even if this would have increased his problems and his
responsibilities, he would still have liked to have some brothers. He
had several cousins, but it was not the same.

Enzo pulled himself out of his deep thoughts -- the first of the
corporals was coming from the Via di Mare. The boy stood up straight to
give a good impression, to show that he was healthy, strong, and ready
to work hard all day. Almost as if they heard a signal, the other
farmhands all turned towards the street, waiting with hope, with
confidence, especially the younger and the stronger ones. Those sitting
on the steps of the Mother Church also stood up and looked towards the
street. The square went silent, and then the sound of the small iron
reinforcing the shoes of the corporal was heard on the pavement.

He was the corporal of don Michele. Enzo hoped that he would call him --
he had hired him several other times and he must be happy with him. The
man reached the center of the square, and pointed to several men, but
not to the boy. Then the chosen group followed the corporal, leaving the
silent square. Enzo relaxed again against the trunk of the tree, but now
the contact with the coarse bark seemed less pleasant to him than
before. But the morning had just started; there was still hope, the boy
thought, trying not to worry.

Now the sun was shinning down on the front and the upper edge of the
central gate, and the two statues to the right and left of the window of
the central nave were illuminated in full light. On the right was Saint
Cosimus, and on the left was Saint Damianus, both young, dressed as
Roman soldiers, who seemed to look at each other with the corner of
their eyes. To Enzo, they always seemed like two friends who were
planning to play a trick on somebody, and who threw each other a glance
almost to ascertain that the other was also ready. Or they had some
secrets to share, something that united them more than how two friends
normally were. They didn't have so much the aspect of Saints, like for
instance Saint Anthony inside the church. That one really seemed like he
had already seen a corner of the Heaven, his eyes turned upwards, a
mysterious smile barely hinted -- he really looked like a Saint. But
those two young men on the front, strong and muscled, with that
apparently serious appearance, betrayed by their closed mouths which
seemed like they could burst into a loud laughter any moment, didn't
give a sense of spirituality at all, especially Saint Damianus, whose
lorica outlined strong pectorals, seemed more of a wrestler than a
Saint.

Enzo was diverted from his thoughts by the sound of some new footsteps.
He looked down the street and recognized the corporal of don Calogero,
the elderly Matteo. There was another man with him, with a young and
elegant gait, and they were chatting in a low voice when they reached
the square. When they passed in front of Enzo, the elder man pointed at
him and the boy nodded happily, and his eyes met those of the young man.
Enzo was amazed to see the deep-sea-colored eyes of the young man. The
two men walked past him, and Enzo was still thinking about the color of
those eyes, full of mystery, and asked himself who the young man could
be.

While following the corporal and the stranger towards don Calogero's
orangeries, Enzo asked one of the other farmhands in a whisper, "Who is
that one?"

There was no need to specify whom Enzo meant by "that one" or to point
at him -- he was the only one about whom one could ask who he was,
because everybody else knew each other.

"That one? Matteo's oldest son, Ruggiero. He studied in Palermo, he came
back just yesterday."

"And why does he stop here?"

"They say he will take his father's place."

"A corporal?"

"Yes, don Matteo is teaching him," the man answered.

"How is he?" Enzo asked.

"Who knows! Young, and therefore a skunk," the man answered.

Enzo thought that it was partially true. The younger corporals were
usually the harshest, trying to affirm their authority. The older
corporals were normally quieter. At their age, authority was glued to
them like a second skin, hardened by the years and the experience. But
Enzo told himself that perhaps that Ruggiero was not a skunk or a
bastard. He seemed self-assured enough, even though he was young. He had
to be younger than thirty-years old. He was dressed with elegance, and
it was evident he had lived in Palermo. Enzo noticed the golden chain on
his waistcoat -- normally only the masters had them, not the corporals.

After they reached the plantation, Matteo gave them the tools and the
orders for that day. Ruggiero was at his side, silent, and observed
everything and everyone with attentive and penetrating eyes. For the
second time, their eyes met and Enzo felt slightly troubled, without
understanding why. Matteo called them by their names while he gave his
orders, possibly for the benefit of his son. In fact, he always just
used a short "you" when he was talking with the farmhands.

Enzo went to work, entering among the rows of the orangery. He knew his
job well, even though he was so young, and he moved quickly, without
wasting any time -- efficient, precise. He had learned the right rhythm
to get to the end of the day without collapsing, but without losing his
time. Usually the young people, and he too at first, tended to overdo
things at the beginning of the workday, and by the end of the day they
almost couldn't even move, so the good impressions they gave in the
first hours were spoiled. Not Enzo. His father explained to him well, on
the few occasions they were hired together, how to spend his energies in
an optimal way. His father, before falling ill, had been a very good
farmhand, appreciated and in demand. Enzo was becoming so as well, even
though he was only seventeen.

It's not that Enzo liked his job. He would have liked to do something
different, although he himself didn't know exactly what. He would have
liked to leave the place, go to a big town like Siracusa, or Catania or
perhaps even to Palermo. And why not? But to do... right, to do what?
Perhaps to work as a shop assistant? He would be able to wear better
clothes, and even shoes! He had heard that the people in those towns
never went around barefoot. "Who knows what it feels like to wear
shoes?" Enzo wondered while he was methodically carrying on his work. He
wore them just once in his life, but he didn't even remember what they
felt like.

The sun rose higher and higher, and was starting to scorch, barely
mitigated by the small tree branches. At times, a light breeze coming
from the mountain and blowing towards the sea would alleviate the heat
in the air. But Enzo preferred the night breeze, which blew from the sea
to the mountain and had a faint scent of saltiness. Wiping away his
sweat, he looked up towards the mountain and gazed at the light, lazy
and long smoke trail that run parallel to the powerful sides of the
Mongibello. The air was heavy today, the boy thought, and continued to
work with a will.

At the signal for the first break, the men gathered, queuing in front of
the table to receive their share of food, then went to sit in small
crowds.

Turi sat near Enzo. "Your pa?"

"As always," the boy answered the man.

Turi asked him that question almost each time, and yet Enzo knew that
Turi and his father met practically every evening at the tavern to play
cards together. Anyway, Turi had been the best friend of his father.
Perhaps the question was more of a rite than anything else, to remind
the boy that he was close to his father. Be as it was, the boy thought,
still at least once a day from Turi came the question "Your pa?" and
Enzo always unfailingly answered "As always" whether his father was well
or ill, merry or sad, angry or serene.

It is something like when somebody asked you "How are you?" and the only
possible answer among men, without breaking the balance of interpersonal
relations, could just be "Fine, thank you, and you?" even if you are
dying or your house is on fire.

Enzo discovered that when he was an adolescent and answered "Bad" one
day.

"Oh, and why?" the other asked in an alarmed tone.

"If I eat, I puke..." Enzo answered.

"Ah, but besides that?" the other asked.

"Dad is in bed and has fever."

"Ah, but besides that?" the other insisted.

Enzo listed a set of problems that were troubling him, but every time
the other countered him with his "Ah, but besides that?" until Enzo
answered frustratingly, "Besides all the bad things, all is fine!"

"Ag, happily..." the man then said, finally satisfied. Thus Enzo
understood that people didn't really want to know about your troubles,
your problems. They could be informed about them, but it's understood
that if they ask you "How are you?" you just have to answer "Fine, thank
you, and you?"

It is different among women. They seem, on the contrary, to get pleasure
from hearing about other women's problems and then try to compete with
each other to see who has more problems. At the fatal question "How are
you?" a woman would answer "Ah, don't ask me!" and she would start to
spill out all her problems -- "I have a little pain here at my knee. The
hens have lice. Mariella has constipation. Oil is more and more
expensive. The only mirror at home broke into pieces..." and so on and
so forth, until the other wife interrupts her, "To whom are you telling
it! Our donkey became lame, and the roof will have to be repaired
but..."

All considered, Enzo preferred men. At least, they were of fewer words.
If a man needs to talk about someone, for instance, he would say
something like "You know, Saro, son of Gesualdo." But a woman would say,
"Don't you know, that thin man, Saro, whose houses is right past the
bend, is married to Venerina and has three children, and the oldest one,
Angelina, is starting to cause them problems as she flirts with all the
boys, even during the Holy Mass..." and so on and so forth.

At the new signal, they all went back to their work. Matteo, with his
son at his side, was walking around and exchanging a few words with all
the farmhands, again calling them by their names. Then he talked in a
very low voice to his son, obviously, to tell his son about his
evaluation of every farmhand, so that Ruggiero could start to know them.
Enzo reflected that he had not even heard the sound of the young man's
voice, just his deep eyes that seemed like they could penetrate inside
you and read you like a book, a straight nose, a straight mouth with
lips that were not too thin and not too fleshy, almost sculpted, and the
faint olive-colored skin of his face made them seem more pinkish than
they really were.

At the end of the day, the men lined up in front of the table. Matteo
looked in a register book the work done by each farmhand and announced
the pay. Ruggiero, standing near him, counted the coins and put them in
front of his father who verified them, wrote the amount on the register
and pushed them on the table towards the farmhand. The man would gather
the coins, say his thanks and set off on his way to go back home. Each
man said his thanks, no matter how happy or unhappy he could be. That
was not the place for complaints, even if there were complaints and even
if there was really a need to express them.

Enzo also gathered his pay, thanked and went back towards his home.
While Ruggiero was counting the coins for him, Enzo looked at his long,
tapered hands, and noticed a gold ring that looked like a wedding ring,
but it was different than a traditional wedding band -- it had what
looked like tiny leaves all around it. He never saw such a ring and
thought it was a city fashion. So Ruggiero was married. Well, it was
just natural for his age. Perhaps he could even have two or three
children already.

But when on the following Sunday at the eleven 'o clock Mass, Enzo saw
don Matteo's family, he was amazed not to see anyone at Ruggiero's side
who could be his wife or children. He thought that Ruggiero's family
could still be in Palermo, and that they would move to the village
later. He had heard that Ruggiero left the village ten years ago, and
that's why he didn't remember him. In Palermo, Ruggiero attended the
university, then worked for a famous lawyer for some years, but now his
father called him back, as don Calogero wanted a new superintendent and
had chosen Ruggiero. But first of all, the master wanted the young man
to learn his new job well, so Ruggiero had to work as a corporal for a
while.

Enzo got all that information from his father who gathered the news at
the tavern, where the coming back of Ruggiero was the news of the month.

Coming out of the church, Enzo said to his father, "I didn't see don
Ruggiero's wife..."

"He is not married," his father answered.

"But he wears a wedding ring."

"No, that's the ring they give to those who have completed the
university."

"And how come he is still not married?"

"Who knows. Maybe it's because he was far from home. Maybe don Matteo is
already planning on something. That young man will go a long way, he is
educated, he knows influential people in the capital, and even in the
Continent, they say. His father just wants to find him a suitable wife,
maybe even a girl of name."

"An aristocrat?" Enzo asked with a dreamy expression.

"Perhaps not as rich or noble, but I think so," his father said entering
their home.

Enzo started to cook. "But, how old is he?" he yelled from the kitchen.

"Older than you, but you were born in the same month."

"He was born in May too?"

"Eh!" his father answered. When he said "eh" instead of "yes", Enzo knew
it meant that his father didn't feel like talking, therefore he stopped
asking questions.

After lunch, Enzo went to his bed to take a nap. His bedroom was quite
dark and the outside heat couldn't get in. Later, he would go to the
belvedere where he would meet his mates. Boys didn't gather on the
square like all the other people. For generations, they preferred the
belvedere. When they became engaged, then they would start going to the
square. It was some kind of unspoken convention that everybody
respected. How it started, nobody knew, but it was all right with
everybody.

Enzo fell asleep almost immediately. The weariness of the week came out,
and Sundays were good for that. You could recover your strength and be
ready for another week of hard work. Anyway, getting tired on Sundays
was a good sign -- it meant that you had worked hard all week.

He woke up hearing a faint rhythmical creaking from the next room. He
smiled when he recognized that noise -- his father was giving vent to
his needs. The first time he heard that strange and mysterious noise,
about three years ago, he went to peep with curiosity from the slit on
the old door of his father's bedroom. And he caught a glimpse of him, in
the half darkness of his bedroom, lying on the double bed, his legs
widespread, his breeches opened, his big pole held tight in his fist
that was moving up and down in a vigorous rhythm, while his other hand
was caressing his hairy chest. Enzo spied on him, and was fascinated.
The man was completely engrossed in that ancient solitary rite, and Enzo
thought that his father's face had the same intensity of a priest
sacrificing to his god, and when his father released his offering, the
face of the man reminded him of the expression on the face of Saint
Anthony in the Mother Church.

Just then, Enzo was able to leave the peeping slit on that door and
silently went back in his bedroom. He lay down on his bed and spread his
legs instinctively. He opened his small breeches and repeated that magic
rite until he too reached ecstasy. And he was aware that at that moment
he was the priest sacrificing in that mysterious liturgy. And when some
time later he heard his companions talking about it with more or less
veiled allusions, he smiled to himself, hearing how they talked about it
in a very superficial way, almost as if it was a mere pastime, a trivial
game, although pleasant. He knew perfectly it was something different.
Just looking at the ecstatic face on the statue of Saint Anthony and
recalling the time when he spied on his father was enough for him to be
confirmed that it was something else. He shared with his father and the
Saint, the knowledge and conscience of that secret.

And when his mates talked with light contempt about those "who take it
in their asses", Enzo thought that it had to be, on the contrary, the
highest and most sacred expression of intimate communion between two
people, between two males. It had to be so, Enzo concluded, because when
he pushed his fingers between his buttocks on his soft and warm hole
while masturbating, he felt the ecstasy multiply -- both of his hands
were giving him pleasure, one in the front, one in the back, moving in
unison. For sure his mates didn't know what they were talking about.

So Enzo, upon hearing the faint rhythmic creaking coming from his
father's room, opened his breeches, and lowered them to his ankles. He
folded up his knees, spreading them, and while he was starting to
masturbate, he wetted two fingers with his spit and pushed them up
inside his hot channel. He closed his eyes and abandoned himself in the
strong and deep pleasure of that secret rite. He would let somebody "put
it in his ass," but certainly not one of his companions, who didn't
understand the beauty of that ultimate union and only talked about it
with sarcasm. No, he would only welcome inside himself someone who also
knew and understood the mysterious beauty of that primeval rite. When he
would meet him and recognize him, he would offer himself to him so that
the sacrifice could be completed.

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CONTINUES IN CHAPTER 2

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In my home page I've put some of my stories. If someone wants to read
them, the URL is

http://www.geocities.com/andrejkoymasky/

If you want to send me feed-back, please e-mail at

andrejkoymasky@geocities.com

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