Date: Mon, 14 Aug 2006 11:05:10 +1000
From: Graham Charles <graham47@bigpond.net.au>
Subject: 'If It Be Sin', Part 1: The Ruination, chapter 2

  Part 1, Chapter 2 - February, 1992

1.

Swimming pools for James were desirable, but dangerous,
places. Numerous summer days at his local Muswellbrook
pool had persuaded him of that by providing him with a
heady concoction of carefree innocent pleasure in the
water and on the diving board and the secret sensual
delights of the changing room and showers. The risks
associated with loitering and looking for too long in
these intoxicating recesses had been happily offset by
the more inconspicuous pastime of lying in the sun on the
pool's grassy surrounds watching any male his age or
older climb from the water with dripping legs and torso.
He had especially liked the way the trails of water,
obeying the laws of gravity, traced their paths down
chest and stomach, framing and shaping the tongue of hair
that descended from the navel only to disappear beneath
the bow of the Speedo's drawstrings into the darkness of
the interior. But, above all else, the wearer's wet nylon
Speedos had generally revealed the contours of the very
item they were designed to conceal. But these were very
secret pleasures, confined to the hidden passages of his
brain. They could not, must not, be shared with anybody
else. They were a one-way ticket to trouble, to the
solitude of exclusion, to the pain of ridicule.

And, with that thought very much in mind, James lolled
about in the water while he waited for the changing rooms
to clear of the thirty or so cocks that would be briefly
exposed as the Year 11 boys of Payne House changed after
early-morning House swimming trials. Only when Farrer,
the House Captain, bellowed at him to `get a move on' did
he glide to the far end of the pool, adroitly lift
himself up and over its tiled edge, collect and then wrap
his towel around his waist.

As he headed for the changing rooms back behind the
starting blocks, he looked down at the rippled green
synthetic pool edging that tickled his bare feet. When he
looked up to ascertain if he was still to be the target
of Farrer's next outburst, he spotted a lone figure
lurking quietly in the far corner, close to the changing
room entrance. Though the eyes were covered by goggles,
James could tell that he was the object of their gaze.
David's pose was liquid and lazy. His right shoulder
leaned against the wall, one skinny leg was bent slightly
at the knee and crossed the other which bore his weight,
his arms were loosely folded, and his head tilted
slightly in that curious way that heads often do when
they are puzzled by something. His long black hair hung
straight and wet like an old mop, and the merest
suggestion of a smile hovered on his lips.
Discomfited, James hurried his steps and averted his eyes
. but not before he had noticed the two prominent dark
nipples, the smooth alabaster skin of the torso, the
narrow waist and jutting hips, the slick of black hair
running from a small belly-button down to the centre of a
pair of low-slung black Speedos, the cheeky projection of
his water-shrivelled cock, and the shapely slender white
thighs.

Why had he looked away so hurriedly? Why had he felt the
heat of a blush in his cheeks? It was the same pang of
self-recrimination he had always felt when his eyes had
fleetingly met those of a Speedo-wearer who had been the
object of his furtive inspection. Always the same
questions had pulsed through his panicking brain. Had his
peek lingered a moment too long? Had his secret been
uncovered? Was he going to be called on to explain
himself? Was he going to be challenged or reproached?
Worse still, was he going to be made an offer that he
couldn't afford to accept? Only once had he allowed his
defences to be breached. It had now been two years since
that day with Angus in his family's shearing shed. There
had been nothing unusual about James spending Saturday
afternoon on the Murrays' property with Angus, and
nothing unusual when Angus had said that they needed to
call into the shearing shed to pick up a can of sheep
drench for his dad. But it had been unusual when Angus
had grabbed at James's dick and had proceeded to expose
his own, proud and erect. A clumsy mutual hand-job had
left James in a state of misery and shame, and with a
firm resolve that such sordidness would never be
repeated.

So, why, two nights ago, had he lain in his bed in the
darkness after supper re-playing over and over in his
head that minute movement of David's lips that he had
fleetingly registered as he had left the Duty Room? As
easily as it could have been construed as a semi-smile,
it could just as easily have been intended as a
contemptuous smirk. Why had it mattered what it was? Why
did it still matter?


Reluctantly looking up in order to navigate his way into
the changing room, James registered with relief, tinged
with a measure of regret, that David had evaporated. The
changing room would be empty, and he would be late for
breakfast if he didn't hurry. As he stepped into the
sterilised environment of white tiles and fluorescent
light, he was seized by a moment of panic that the only
other occupant might be David. The space, however, was
bare, save for a wet towel, several pairs of wet Speedos
and half a dozen swim caps carelessly draped over the low
wooden benches or lying discarded on the tiled floor.
Once again his relief had to co-exist with
disappointment.



2.


  "Jesus wept, Daniel Preece! We've been discussing
  Humanism for the best part of a week, and you still
  can't give me a respectable definition of it. Truly,
  boy, you are an intellectual tragedy".
  Enjoying the general mirth at Preece's expense, Phillip
  waited until it had subsided before delivering another
  thrust.
  "This subject is not some soft option like Biology or
  Accounting. It requires an ability to read, some vague
  capacity to think, a level of cultural sensitivity and
  a willingness to do some work. What I suggest, Daniel,
  is that you assess your competence in those areas and,
  having discovered that you are sadly deficient in all
  of them, go to Mr Tait and arrange a transfer to
  Geography where you can use your coloured pencils".
  James could sense that David, seated at the desk in
  front of him, was trying hard to contain his laughter.
  The rest of the class sat in stunned silence. Phillip,
  who secretly relished these humiliations, glared at the
  unfortunate Preece. He then spread his arms, smiled
  benignly, and, as if nothing had happened, continued:
  "Because the early Humanists were concerned to stress
  the intellectual capacity of man, they needed to go
  back over a thousand years to find a society in which
  men took centre stage. Why was that, Singleton?"
  "Because the medieval Christian scholars considered man
  to be powerless in the face of an all-powerful God",
  came the competent response.
  "Good. So this took them back to the societies of
  ancient Greece and Rome, and their first task was to
  master the languages of those societies - which were,
  Silverwood?"
  James was caught off guard. He had been wondering
  exactly who it had been that had been responsible for
  his proximity to David, while simultaneously admiring
  the black snakeskin belt that perfectly co-ordinated
  with the pink of Phillip's linen shirt and the mid-grey
  of his tailored trousers.
  "Er. Latin and Greek, Mr Moore".
  "Good. By the late Trecento - the meaning of that term,
  please, Chiu?"
  "The fourteenth century".
  "Yep. By the late 1300s, Humanist scholars all over
  Italy were hunting down ancient Latin and Greek
  manuscripts not only for the purpose of mastering the
  languages, but mainly in order to gain access to the
  wisdom of such ancient philosophers and historians as
  Cicero, Livy, Aristotle, Seneca and many others."

  Unlikely to again be prey to Phillip's relentless
  crusade to unearth ignorance, James returned to the
  issue of seating arrangements. Who had gravitated to
  whom? Although he would have been flattered to conclude
  that he had been the magnet, he couldn't in all
  conscience be certain that it hadn't been the other way
  around. Why did this boy gnaw at the edges of his
  resolve? Certainly he found him attractive, but that
  wasn't a satisfactory explanation. Maybe it was his
  demeanour of bored self-assurance, of `who-gives-a-
  fuck' insolence, of intimidating untouchability? Most
  of all, he realised, it was that very imperviousness
  that was the candle to his moth. What lay behind that
  impenetrable veneer of indifference, mystery and non-
  conformity? Unlike Callo and Travis, he wasn't
  dismissive of it. On the contrary, he was lured, like
  Columbus exactly 500 years before him, to venture into
  the unknown. But there are dangers in the unknown, and
  James knew instinctively that David meant Danger. And
  it would, he knew, be danger with dimensions that he
  could not even guess at. And, even as he asked himself
  if he would run the risk of catastrophe, he already
  knew the answer.


  "Who can suggest where they may have discovered all
  these manuscripts? And how had they had survived for so
  long?"
  "Yes, David Mulholland?"
  "Most of them were found in monasteries, in which they
  had been copied and re-copied by hand over the
  centuries by monastic scholars", ventured David
  silkily.
  "Yes. That's a very good answer. If I get sick, you can
  take over".
  David, however, did not acknowledge the compliment, and
  the lesson continued, with Phillip expounding on the
  characteristics of a Humanist education program.

  "Right, just before you pack up, write down the
  homework, please. Using pages 235 to 240 of your
  Brucker text and the documents I have copied for you,
  list the subjects that were the core of a Humanist
  education, and find quotes in the documents that
  suggest why they were so important. OK, understand?"

**
  "Shit, why don't any of you guys do Renaissance
  History? I can't make head nor tail of this Cicero
  guy".
  James sat at his desk frustrated at his lack of
  progress in completing his History homework.
  "Go and ask Mother Fucking Superior in 11.5", sneered
  Travis.
  "Actually", replied James, "that's not a bad idea". For
  the best part of an hour, he had been thinking of doing
  precisely that, but he didn't want to risk Travis's
  ridicule if it looked like his own initiative. Now,
  however, if questioned, he could attribute the idea to
  Travis.
  Casually - but with his insides churning - James got up
  from his chair, gathered his sheaf of documents, his
  textbook and his History folder, and, with pen clenched
  between his teeth, opened the door of  Study 11.3 and
  disappeared into the corridor.

  The rules were clear. Only in a dire emergency was a
  boy to leave his Study during Prep. He only had ten
  metres to negotiate and the carpet aided and abetted
  his stealth. He tapped lightly on the door of 11.5 and
  pushed it open. David's cubicle was located in the same
  position as his own, and when he turned to face it, he
  was greeted by the sight of chaos. Items of school
  uniform were strewn haphazardly over the bed and floor;
  three large books, all open, rested on the bed; and a
  large Megadeth poster was bluetacked above the bed
  head. A smaller poster of Nirvana was stuck to the
  wardrobe door, and the floor was littered with CDs and
  empty CD cases. Amid the mess, David sat at his desk
  moshing to the heavy beat that faintly reached James's
  ears from the headphones that were partly hidden from
  sight by the gyrating mop of black hair. He was turned
  slightly away from the door, and on the back of his
  black T-shirt were the words `YNGWIE FUCKIN MALMSTEEN'
  in white paint. He wore black jeans and his feet were
  bare.
  David was unaware of James's presence, and James was on
  the point of turning tail without disturbing him when a
  ball of paper lobbed over the wardrobe-desk unit and
  landed softly in David's lap.
  "Hey, Mulholland", came an obviously Chinese voice,
  "We've got a visitor and please turn that crap down".
  Whether or not David heard the words, he was certainly
  startled by the paper ball lobbing into his lap, and he
  turned to see James standing in the doorway. Removing
  his headphones, he smiled gently and said softly, "This
  is an unexpected pleasure. How can I help you, Senor
  Silverwood?"
  Encouraged by David's not unfriendly greeting, James
  replied:
  "First, what on earth is Yngwie Fuckin Malmsteen? And,
  secondly, I was hoping you might be able to help me
  understand this Cicero stuff".
  "No worries, man, happy to be of service. It's not
  `what' is Yngwie Malmsteen? - it's `who' is Yngwie
  Malmsteen? See", and he now pointed to the front of his
  T-shirt which said `MALMSTEEN WHO?'.
  "He's this incredible Swedish rock guitarist whose
  stuff is just awesome. I'll lend you a CD if you like.
  Nobody in Australia has ever heard of him, of course.
  Sorry, no offence".
  "None taken", James reassured him.
  "Now, about Cicero. . Clear some of that shit on the
  bed and grab a seat".
  "Won't we disturb your dorm mates?"
  "Is it OK if we talk for a few minutes, Jimmy", David
  called across the room to Jimmy Ho.
  "It'll be better than all that head-banger crap that
  escapes from your earphones", replied Jimmy lightly.
  "Thanks, man", and, turning back to James, "The other
  two are in the House library. . OK, Cicero was the king
  dick intellectual - you might even say, the conscience
  - of the Roman republic before Julius Ceasar's bid to
  end the republic by having himself crowned king.
  Although this failed, his nasty little nephew Octavian
  eventually grabbed power and declared himself the
  Emperor Augustus. Anyway, Cicero could sense the danger
  of the republic being overthrown, and he pleaded with
  his fellow citizens in the Senate to demonstrate their
  commitment to the liberty of the republic. So he gave
  lots of speeches and wrote lots of letters and so on,
  in which he praised the republic. He realised that if
  educated Romans were going to preserve the republic
  against would-be tyrants, they needed to show some
  commitment to it, and the best way of showing this was
  through a life of service to the community. For this
  and also for persuading the Roman plebs not to fall for
  the bullshit of people like Caesar, they needed the
  skills of speaking and writing. So, he stressed how
  subjects like rhetoric, history, law and philosophy
  were important to a man's education, and you can see
  those ideas in the documents that Moore gave us. Does
  that make sense?"
  "Actually, it does. So," ventured James, "the Humanists
  in the Renaissance adopted these ideas on the grounds
  that, if men were going to be responsible for their own
  destiny and progress, they were going to need the same
  skills, rather than relying on the bloody church to
  dictate to them. Is that right?"
  "Yes, although there's another aspect to it which I am
  sure Moore will get to next lesson. I also agree with
  your description of the church".
  "Yeah, I thought you would".
  "How come?"
  "From what you said in class about religion being
  nonsense".
  "You remember what I said in class?"
  Flushing, James admitted that he did.
  "Hey, man, I like the way you blush. I've noticed it
  before".
  Feeling awkward, but not wanting to leave, James turned
  to the books on the bed and noticed that they all
  displayed colour photographs of paintings.
  "Are you interested in art?"
  "In Italian Renaissance art, yeah. Especially Florence.
  I was there last year with my mother and I brought
  these books back with me. Actually, I can't wait for
  Moore to get off Humanism, and on to Florence. Now that
  we're getting rid of Preece, it should be soon".
  The bell rang for the end of compulsory prep.
  "I'd better get to bed", said James.


3.

As tedious as he found it, Phillip had to admit that
cricket had had one civilising impact on those parts of
the globe that had once laboured under the British yoke.
Throughout urban conglomerates from Bombay to Brisbane it
had been responsible for the creation of a myriad of
charming recreational havens. It was alongside one of
these that, on most summer Saturday afternoons, Phillip
reclined on his canvas lounger and unwound after a hectic
week with Saturday's Sydney Morning Herald or a book and
the oddly comforting sound of ball on bat. Shaded by the
untamed overhanging branches of a row of plane trees and
occasionally warmed by the sunlight that managed to
penetrate gaps in the foliage opened up from time to time
by a gentle breeze, he could also surreptitiously assess
the beauty of the athletic young men who comprised the
visiting team.

Today it was the boys of the pompously-named The King
Edward Grammar School who had come to do battle with
North Sydney Grammar, and their accompanying entourage
was ensconced on a verge of lush grass a little way to
his left. Several large market umbrellas in the school's
red and navy provided protection from the sun for the
casually, but carefully, dressed group. Most of the women
sat upright in canvas chairs, some nursing infants or at
least controlling their wanderings by means of red
plastic leashes. Their chatter, carried on the breeze,
broached the usual subjects: the outrageous price of
smoked salmon; Clarice Potter's drinking problem; the
venue of next Tuesday morning's tennis; and how
`gorgeous' the boys looked in their new caps. By
contrast, the men either lounged in brightly coloured
recliners or paced nervously round the boundary line,
depending on whose son was currently involved in
deflating or inflating his father's ego. Thumbed and
folded copies of the Financial Review, empty plastic cups
and beakers, bowls of water for the golden retrievers,
and an assortment of mobile phones littered the ground.

Though irritated by the women's strident volubility,
practised and perfected as an accessory to prosperity,
the voyeur in Phillip wanted to take a closer look. He
now rose nimbly from his lounger and, ostensibly to
`stretch his legs', began a deliberate perambulation of
the field for the actual purpose of more closely
observing, and inwardly deriding, the foibles of Sydney's
Upper North Shore nouveau set.
"Melissa, come here, darling. Don't run over the white
line, darling, or that horrid red ball might hit and hurt
you". How the white line would provide some magical
protection for Melissa was not explained. Nevertheless,
Melissa, beautifully attired in Gumboots and Oshmekosh,
waddled back reluctantly to Mummy. "And, Charles, get
Tonto's nose out of the strawberry shortcake, would you.
And please pass me the sunscreen from the green bag. And,
while you've got it in hand, make sure you put plenty on
that nose of yours." Charles naturally obeyed, hiding his
reluctance more successfully than his three-year old
daughter. The piece de resistance of the afternoon tea
picnic fare was rescued, as was, at least for today, the
health of Charles's nose.

Leaving Charles to his domestic misery, Phillip continued
his perambulation in the direction of the gaggle of his
own school's parents. The group could have been cloned
from that he had just observed, save for the colours of
the market umbrellas. He toyed with performing a U-turn,
thereby avoiding having to exchange pleasantries with
mothers whose names he could never remember. What stopped
him from executing this act of cowardice was the arrival
on the boundary line some twenty metres ahead of him of
James Silverwood, who had been despatched by his captain
to protect the boundary against a mounting battery of
aggressive hook shots.

The boy, he thought, was really quite impressive. He'd
only been at the school for three - or was it four? -
weeks and he seemed to have made a seamless transition
from the insularity of a rural high school to the bustle
of one of Sydney's most prestigious private schools. He
was personable, he had a few brains and he was in the
School XI. That probably explains why he won the
scholarship. And, noting the way in which his fitted
cricket shirt flattered his burgeoning muscularity,
Phillip noted that he wasn't bad looking either. As he
got closer to where James was absorbed in his fielding
duties, he focused on the boy's face, which was tanned in
coppery tones that matched his short, though roughly cut,
hair. A band of freckles spread across his nose ending on
both cheekbones, which were high and prominent. The jaw
was wide, giving the face a masculinity that suggested
strength of will and lack of fear. Bright, eager blue
eyes complemented the warmth and trust of the uninhibited
smile, with which he now greeted Phillip. His parted red
lips produced a dimple in both cheeks and revealed a row
of sparkling white teeth, with just a hint of a gap
between the two top front ones.
"Hi, Mr Moore. Thank God it's tea. We're getting
whipped."
As James broke into a trot towards the temporary haven of
the pavilion, Phillip concluded that below the boy's
sunny optimism lay a defenceless vulnerability and a
naivety bred of inexperience.

Phillip watched as David Mulholland stepped out of the
shadows of the trees to greet James, and, whilst he
couldn't hear their conversation, he became conscious of
the easy laughter. He observed that the encounter lacked
the usual adolescent male element of sham aggression,
which was meant to proclaim machismo and to fend off any
suggestion of being `sissy'. Yet, neither boy seemed at
all self-conscious about their relaxed, transparent
familiarity. It was, Phillip concluded, so
uncharacteristic of the species that there must be a
dimension to these boys and their fellowship that
transcended the normal immaturity and gaucheness of
teenage behaviour.
The meeting lasted no more than a few minutes. James,
clearly conscious of the need to re-join his team-mates,
terminated the rendezvous and, with a smile and wave of
the hand, headed on to the pavilion.

Phillip easily dismissed the tiny note of disquiet in his
head as he saw David consult his watch and head off with
unaccustomed haste towards Payne House. He himself
gathered up his newspapers, folded his lounger and ambled
off in the same direction. He had an appointment to keep.



4.

Phillip became conscious of a tentative knock on the
door.
"Come", he bellowed in his usual economic way.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr Moore, but could you please
sign my leave form? My parents are coming down to see me
this weekend and I'll stay with them at their hotel after
cricket."
"Certainly, James. Come in. This is a most unexpected
pleasure".
Blushing, James crossed the threshold and stood
awkwardly.
"Sit down, sit down. Cup of poison? It's only instant,
I'm afraid. How do you have it?" Phillip asked, not
waiting for James to nod his assent.
"White with two, please".

As Phillip bustled over to the tiny kitchenette in the
corner of the flat, James took a seat on a black leather
two-seater and took in his surroundings. The harsh
fluorescent light that permeated every other nook and
cranny of Payne House did not apply in here. The tube was
there on the ceiling alright, but Phillip chose to live
and work in the creamier and more subtle light provided
by three free-standing lamps, one of which was a brass
and green glass lamp positioned on a small cedar table
that obviously served as a desk since it was piled high
with books and papers and had a sturdy wooden desk chair
on old-fashioned castors in front of it. The second light
was a tall art deco aluminium uplight, located just
behind and to the left of the two-seater, and the third
was a Japanese rice paper lantern that stood in the far
corner of the flat next to the door that led out onto a
small balcony. A chrome and black leather armchair sat
unoccupied in front of the floor length window that
adjoined the balcony door and was within easy reach of a
state-of-the-art hi-fi system, which gently filled the
room with the strains of a Boccherini guitar concerto. A
small television and video recorder sat on top of a
single-drawer antique oak filing cabinet between the
Japanese lantern and another door, this one opening into
a darkened space, presumably the bedroom. Finally, in the
middle of the room sat a low highly polished mahogany
occasional table, on which was scattered a number of
plain dark green coasters to protect the surface from the
heat of coffee mugs and carelessly spilt coffee. The
table sat on an exquisitely woven silk rug of oriental
design whose predominant colours were a peachy pink and a
soft beige. The rug largely hid the dirty brown of the
Payne House carpet, and four large prints in walnut
frames performed the same function as far as the concrete-
block walls were concerned. The one on the wall directly
facing James portrayed ten totally naked men attacking
each other with swords, daggers, an axe and a bow and
arrows. Though this was eye-catching enough, it was the
print on the wall above the desk that really caught
James's attention. Before he could examine it closely,
however, he heard the chink of teaspoon stirring coffee.

Phillip placed James's coffee on a coaster on the low
table, asking: "Fruit cake or shortbread?"
"Fruit cake, please, Mr Moore."
"In here you can call me Phillip. But only in here, OK?"
Seating himself on the desk chair, Phillip went on: "So,
James, you seem to have settled in very nicely. Friends
in the House and success at cricket. Yes? And you seem to
be getting the hang of Renaissance Italy?"
"Yes, on all counts . Phillip. Actually, I love the
History now. David Mulholland has been helping me a bit
with it, and that's made quite a difference."

When Phillip returned with more coffee and cake, James
asked: "What got you interested in the Renaissance?"
"Well, a teacher at school actually and then I studied
the subject at university. I became really interested in
fifteenth century Florentine painting, with its
innovation of one-point perspective and its focus on the
representation of the human body. Hence," - and Phillip
gestured to the four prints with both arms - "the
paintings on the walls in here".
James quickly glanced at the two prints that had so far
avoided his attention.
"But they're all of naked or semi-naked men. Didn't they
also paint women?"
"Yes, of course, but what intrigued me was the
disproportionate number of scantily-clad men in the
paintings. Until Botticelli late in the century, women
were usually portrayed in religious settings, and were
generally fully clothed. And there was something else
about the men. Look at this one."
Phillip pointed to the print above the desk that had
earlier caught James's attention.

Looking at it again, James saw an attractive young man,
clad only in a loin cloth that hung so low that it
exposed his pubic hair, tethered to a vine-covered tree.
Arrows pierced his side and thigh, and one had passed
right through his neck, sending trickles of blood from
both the entry and exit wounds. Hovering above him and
holding a golden coronet in both hands, was a winged
angel. In the background was a landscape of wooded hills,
ancient ruins and a flowing river, all bathed in the
golden aura radiating from the angel. But what was most
pronounced was the young man's body and the expression of
agonised ecstasy on his boyish face.

"What strikes you most about the painting?" Phillip asked
ever so suggestively.
James blushed involuntarily, but was not deterred.
"Well, it seems to be basically the same as these other
two. All of them are of the same thing - a guy shot with
arrows. And all the guys are almost undressed and they
all look really young. Who were these guys?"
"Exactly. All of that is what occurred to me and it made
me wonder why. The subject of all three paintings - and
there are a whole lot more of him - is Saint Sebastian, a
Roman officer in the emperor Diocletian's army who was
martyred for converting to Christianity. Essentially they
are religious paintings, but you wouldn't know it. What
seems to have been far more important to the artists are
the androgynous beauty of the boys - you could hardly
call them men -, the sensuality of their bodies, and
their erotic swooning. And so many artists at that time
painted him like that. Why? It was as if he provided a
convenient excuse for a soft porn painting."
Phillip was warming to his subject, and James, still
slightly flushed, was fascinated.
"So, I decided to find out something about the artists.
This one above the desk was painted by Giovanni Antonio
Bazzi, a Sienese painter who lived in Florence. The art
historian Giorgio Vasari tells us that Bazzi was so well
known for his erotic interest in young men that he was
known by everyone as Il Sodoma, the sodomite. But then I
discovered an odd thing. The more paintings of Saint
Sebastian that I found, the more that the erotic ones
seemed to be confined to fifteenth century artists in
Florence. And then I came across this article by a
historian named Michael Rocke."
Phillip now leaned over the desk, and retrieved a book,
which James could see was entitled Male Homosexuality in
Renaissance and Enlightenment Europe.
"It's in this. You can read it if you like. Rocke argues
that homosexuality was so widespread in Florence that the
15th century German word for a homosexual was florenzer.
He quotes sources that describe how parents often
deliberately dressed up their young sons in provocative
and immodest clothing to make them targets for older guys
so that the parents would gain financially when their son
attracted a wealthy suitor. He comes to the conclusion
that homosexuality - the Florentines called it `sodomy' -
was so common that it came to be regarded as an integral
part of male culture and a normal part of the life
experience of most Florentine males under thirty. And
this occurred even though it was outlawed by the state
and the church."

James did not wish to make his interest too obvious, so,
in as matter-of-fact tone as he could feign, he asked:
"But why was it so prevalent?"



 "Good question. Rocke and others that the explanation is
largely to do with the marriage patterns in Florence at
the time. Girls were usually married off between the ages
of 13 and 15. If a girl wasn't married by the age of 16,
she was usually sent to a nunnery. Boys, on the other
hand, seldom married before the age of 30 or 31. They
weren't considered to be mature enough to engage in the
city's economic and political activities before that age,
and they were therefore incapable of supporting a wife
and family until their late 20s at the earliest. Now,
just think about what this meant. When males were at
their sexually most rampant, there weren't any available
girls. So what do you think they did? Well, I'm sure you
could probably use your imagination, but I'll tell you.
They had sex with each other, and usually these liaisons
involved an active older male and a passive younger boy".

James felt his face burning, and he now sought to divert
the conversation.
"What's that one over there with the naked guys killing
each other?"
Phillip laughed and replied, "It's called Battle of Ten
Nudes by Antonio Pollaiuolo.  But that's another story,
and it's getting late. Just one last thing before you go.
Homosexuality had become so prevalent in Florence that in
1432 the state created a special police force, the Office
of the Night. In the 70 years of its existence, over
17,000 Florentine males were accused of homosexual
behaviour at least once. That's two out of every three
males. Now, what do you think of that?"
"Christ, is that for real? Or are you just taking the
piss out of me?"
"No, I'm not, as you so colourfully put it, taking the
piss out of you. It's all true. Now get off to bed. And
feel free to call in again."

James stood to go, but his progress towards the door was
arrested by an extraordinary object, hitherto unnoticed
due to its position in the corner slightly behind where
he had been sitting. It was a large carved wooden owl,
draped in a black felt hooded cloak. On its head sat a
tall unlit candle, attached to which was a small sign
that said `This is the true light'.
"What on earth is that?', James asked.
"Like the Pollaiuolo, that's another story. But it's one
I will tell you another time you visit. Now, if you don't
go to bed, I'll be in trouble. OK?"



5.

"I have already told you that the entry to his flat was
through a battered, flaking green, old wood-framed
flywire door, which squeaked every time it opened and
closed. He said that he liked the noise it made, that it
acted as a sort of sign that he was about to receive a
visitor, and that it meant that he could always keep the
solid timber door open. The first time I ever saw that
door closed against the outside world was one late
afternoon in early May during my second year at the
school. He had been working at his desk as usual, and I
had been curled up on the sofa listening to Vivaldi . or
was it Gabrielli? Well, it was one of the two, because by
then he had mesmerised me with the art and music of
Renaissance Venice. Anyway, he suddenly stood up and
closed the timber door, saying that he was feeling `a bit
nippy'. I must say that I was somewhat surprised at this,
because we had had colder days than that one without the
door being closed. Soon after, he said that he needed to
take a shower before dinner, but that I could stay while
he did so. Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened
and he called out to me, `Phillip, I left my towel on the
window sill. Would you mind bringing it in here for me?'
At the time I thought nothing at all of his request, and,
still captivated by the music, I went to the window,
picked up the towel and pushed open the door to his
little bathroom. What I saw then I can see just as
clearly in my mind today. He was standing there facing me
stark naked. I didn't know what to do or, more to the
point, what he wanted me to do. I would have done
literally anything to please him. The trouble was that,
at that moment, I had absolutely no sense of what would
please him. So, I simply handed him the towel and,
closing the door behind me, retreated to the sofa."

"So what did you make of it later?"
Tim Murphy made the question sound as matter-of-fact as
asking someone his name.

"I suppose that, for many twelve year-old boys, the sight
of a naked man would have been entirely unremarkable.
Maybe, I thought, that was what he assumed. Maybe there
had been no more to it than his simple explanation. And
yet there was clearly premeditation. Why else did he
close the door? He had clearly wanted me to see him like
that. And, for me, it was anything but unremarkable. I
had no older brothers and I had never seen my father
without clothes. As I lay in my dormitory bed that night,
I tried to sort out my reactions. I knew beyond doubt
that some boundary had been crossed, that there was
something forbidden about what had happened. But I also
knew that I did not want to expunge the image from my
memory. Rather, I wanted to enhance it, and in my mind I
zoomed in for a close-up of his cock tumbling from the
thatch of fair hair and resting on the elongated sack
that housed his balls. I found it peculiarly arousing,
and the outcome of that arousal was my first ejaculation,
which caused feelings of shame and guilt. Next day,
neither of us said anything, and everything returned to
`normal' . except for what thereafter happened regularly
in my bed once the lights went out."

Phillip lapsed into a silence, which he expected Tim to
break. But he did not. He simply wrote himself a clipped
note, and looked at Phillip benignly for what seemed an
eternity.

"For the duration of that second winter, life in Luke's
flat followed its by-then familiar pattern, and even on
the bleakest day the timber door remained open, sheltered
from the icy winds as it was by a brush fence. But with
the onset of spring, that season of renewal and
fertility, Luke began to sit with me on the sofa and the
timber door began to be closed and latched. While telling
me the story of Brunelleschi's dome for the duomo in
Florence, he perched himself tentatively on the sofa's
edge to show me the genius of the architect's design. As
I marvelled at the double-skinned brickwork, I felt his
hand on my leg, just above the knee. Though surprised, I
was not afraid. In fact, I did not respond in any way at
all. Until, that is, after the lights went out in the
dormitory when I wished that it had been on my thigh. The
next day it was, and as for the day after that . well, as
they say, modesty prevents. Suffice to say that that day
established a new pattern of visits to Luke's flat. One
thing that you must understand is that I never felt
abused, unhappy or guilty. He was always gentle and
loving. He never coerced me and he never hurt me. In
fact, in light of all the things that I later discovered
about gay sex, it was remarkably tame. It was no more
than what is, I think, referred to as a `hand job', and
it wasn't even mutual.  But I loved it . until."