Yes, another Ripley fan fic - you'd think I've something better to do with my time.
***
Tom has been dumped by Dickie after the disastrous boat incident (see my previous story San Remo if you want to know more). This is an alternate story where Dickie wasn't murdered. Bascially, Tom has been rejected and feeling quite sorry for himself, and doesn't know if he has anything to look forward to anymore.
***
Tom sat on the beach staring out into the water thinking of the events that just passed. Dickie's desertion still stung two days later. He looked down at himself, his clothes crumpled from having spent the last night sleeping outside. He hadn't any money, and to top it off, everything he owned in the world and was inside a cheap cardboard suitcase. What he had done to deserve this torture alluded him.
He sighed and commanded himself to stop dwelling on this failure. He couldn't spend any more time thinking of Dickie. There must be something else to look forward to. The world didn't revolve around that arrogant man. Tom had to admit being miserable in Italy was a lot better than being miserable in New York. But yet, the beauty of this country wasn't moving him right now. It was hard to enjoy anything without being reminded of the past.
What Tom dreaded losing most was the chance to absorb the culture of this place. There would be no operas, museums, or architecture to appreciate now. If he wanted to listen to Bach, it'd have to be endured through the tinny sound of a record player. He would never experience the pure, clean notes of a world class orchestra live.
Tom sighed and once again thought of the security that death would provide. Then he had an idea, perhaps if we went to a new part of Italy. One that didn't bring back memories. A place like Venice. And if he was still unhappy, he could always jump into the canal. Let the gondoliers fish his bloated corpse from the water. Tom laughed, feeling better already. The only problem now was how to get Venice.
Stealing seemed the only solution to acquire the funds. He glanced at the few people on the beach, it didn't seem too likely that they would carry money with them. If the men carried wallets, he thought he'd be able to pick their pockets. It would be impossible to do out in the open. A crowd was needed for Tom's fingers to be able to work. He looked in the direction of an ice cream cart. A small mob of children and their parents buzzed around. Tom saw his opportunity.
He joined the line behind a fat man, kept busy by the screaming of his two kids. Tom made out they were fighting over which flavor they wanted. The man tried to calm his children, and did not notice when Tom's hand slipped in to his back pocket and removed his wallet.
Tom made sure no one was watching, then walked away cleanly. He got up to the street, and walked as fast as he could to the train station. He hoped there was enough money inside to get to Venice. He didn't risk stopping to check.
At the station, Tom checked the wallet in the men's washroom. To Tom's relief there was more than enough for a ticket. He pocketed the cash and threw the wallet into a trash can.
Tom stepped onto the train. As soon as he sat down in his chair, he fell asleep, and did not wake until he arrived in Venice later that afternoon.
Tom was instantly refreshed by the city. He looked upon the new faces that spoke with the slightly different accents with curiosity. He bought himself a pastry from a street vendor and sat down at the steps of an impressive looking church to eat.
He was looking at his grubby hands, telling himself how badly he needed a bath, when a voice interrupted.
"Are you okay?"
Tom looked up at the elegant man standing over him. "I'm fine," Tom stood up. "I was only resting."
The Englishman smiled. "Sorry. You looked a little down on your luck. Still, it's great to hear the english language once in a while." He offered his hand. "Peter Smith-Kinglsey."
Tom's smile froze with recognition. Surely this was the same man Marge had mentioned to him once before. She did say he lived in Venice. If it was him, did he know who Tom was? Had Marge spoke kindly of him? Enough time had passed for Marge to post a letter recounting that horrible house guest of Dickie's who left suddenly. Tom briefly considered using a fake name to introduce himself, then decided against it. Bad reputation or not, being a friend of a friend was a definite advantage.
The men shook hands. "Tom Ripley. I think I've heard your name before.."
Peter smiled modestly. "I'm an opera repetiteur, perhaps you've attended one of my concerts."
"Since this is my first time in Venice, probably not. I wonder, do you know a Marge Sherwood? She's American as well."
"I do. You weren't just staying at Dickie's? Of course you were, I remember now. Marge mentioned a charming young man from New York in a letter a few months ago. What a coincidence that we should meet. Come have a coffee with me."
Tom studied the man. He didn't seem a threat at all; nicely dressed, well spoken, kind eyes. Tom felt at ease and agreed to go with him.
"Splendid. There's a cafe up the street."
On the walk there, they talked some more. Tom came up with a respectable story on how he came to Venice, nothing too fanciful. "I'm just passing through. I've been on foot the past few days, exploring the country. That's why I'm so shabby looking. I couldn't bear experiencing Italy through the windows of trains."
Peter offered to take the suitcase off Tom's hands. "I can see already why Marge spoke highly of you. She has impeccable taste when it comes to friends."
"Obviously, if you're among them." They came to the cafe, sat down and ordered their drinks.
Tom told the story of how Mr. Greenleaf recruited him for this mission, and how sorry he was that it had failed. He liked Dickie, but thought he was a bit stubborn, not to follow his father's wishes and return home. Peter sympathised with Tom's regrets of having let down the elder Greenleaf. In between sips of coffee, Peter told him he had no right to feel guilty. There was no need to worry about taking advantage of anyone, he had tried his best.
"I'm glad you enjoy Italy so much. I've lived here three years and don't miss England in the slightest." Peter said.
"I'm trying to get back to the states, but every morning I wake up and think, 'I haven't been to Venice!'. One more day to be a tourist, then I'm on that ship home. The next thing I know, I'm in a new city, and I don't want to leave."
Peter smiled. "Why don't you stay then? If your Italian's good you could get a job somewhere. I could probably find you a cheap place. Unless, there's some business that needs your attention in New York."
Tom pretended to consider the idea. He didn't want to appear desperate. Thank God for this man, he thought, he had surely saved his life. Tom laughed to himself, realising how dramatic he was.
"That's a great idea. I can't believe I didn't think of it."
Peter signaled for the check. "You can stay at my place. I'd be more than glad to take you in."
Tom adored Peter's apartment, and told him so. He marveled at the art on the walls, the books on the shelves, and most adoringly, the piano in the corner. It was the one possession that Tom felt was worth owning. He slid his fingers across the keyboard, delighting in the sound.
"Do you play?" Peter asked.
"Not as much as I like to. Hard to do, when you're homeless." Tom turned to look at the photographs on the wall. Most were of Peter conducting.
Peter stood behind Tom. "It seems a bit vain to have photos of yourself plastered on the wall. But, you can't blame me, I didn't do the decorating."
Tom suddenly felt like he was intruding. It sounded as if someone else lived here too. "Oh, you have a roommate? I can go to a hotel, if it's too cramped. I don't mind at all."
Peter shook his head, and Tom saw sadness in his eyes. "No. Not-- There's no one else." He shrugged off whatever the memory was. "Tom, don't worry about being a nuisance. You're not. Would you like a drink? I'm so so at martinis, but fabulous at Manhattans."
"That's fine. Thanks."
Peter left Tom to explore the room. Posters from various concerts at respectable venues showcased that Peter was quite successful in his job. There was one small photograph on the wall of Peter and another man mugging for the camera. Tom smiled at the goofiness of Peter's pose, his eyes crossed, mouth twisted up into a huge grin. Tom's eyes drifted from this to a picture frame turned face down on the mantle. He flipped it over to see the same dark haired man and Peter in a more intimate pose. They looked very happy, he thought. Tom replaced the frame and looked back up at the wall, searching for more signs of the mystery man. He found him again, this time in a group photo of the orchestra. He was a cello player, and Tom guessed, an Italian. The possibility that Peter could be nursing a broken heart was enormously appealing to him.
Peter strolled in with the drinks. "Here we are then." He handed Tom his glass. "A toast?"
"To Italy?" It seemed like a safe thing to celebrate, Tom thought.
"To Italy then. Cheers." Their glasses clinked together.
Tom settled into the spare room that Peter prepared for him. It was small, but preferable to where he spent the night before this. He crept under the covers, fresh from a bath, and fell asleep instantly.
Peter let him sleep late. He woke up at 11, eager for a new start. He dressed and found Peter had breakfast ready.
"You shouldn't have done all this." He glanced at the scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, hot coffee and other goodies on the table. "You could have slapped some cheese and crackers together, and I'd be just as happy."
"Well, I was going to say if you wanted to start looking for a job today, that you needed a big meal to keep you going. But, while I was waking for Sleeping Beauty to wake up, I thought of a better idea. I'm always behind in organizing my music and such for the next day's practise. An assistant would really help me out. You could tune the instruments, transcribe extra parts, what have you. Nothing too strenuous."
Tom didn't even have to think about it. "I'd love to. I can't think of anything that would please me more."
"It's settled then. Mind you, it doesn't pay very much. It's enough to keep you off the streets, though." Peter poured a cup of coffee for his guest. "Anytime you want to go apartment hunting, just tell me. I can even help you financially at the start, if you want to get settled sooner."
"Peter, you're doing so much as it is. Don't be so nice, it's making me suspicious."
Peter's face twitched a little, and he sat down. "Just so you know, I make no effort to hide what I am. If you're offended, I'd rather you tell me now. I'm not much for hidden prejudices."
Tom looked Peter in the eyes, trying to convey how much his kindness meant to him. "I'm not bothered at all. I'm just overwhelmed. No one's been so good to me before."
Then he thought of his first days of acceptance in Mongibello. That seemed wonderful at the start too. What if this situation went sour too? No, this was different. Peter was different. "I think you're great, as a matter of fact." Honesty came easy when talking to this man.
Peter smiled as he buttered a piece of toast. "Hmm... Maybe there won't be a need for you go apartment hunting at all."
A huge grin engulfed Tom's face. He had never been flirted with. Ever. He quite truthfully didn't know what to say or do. He hoped that a smile would suffice.
The next few days were spent touring the city. Peter showed him all the famous attractions; the gondola rides through the canals, the museums. Peter was more proud of his own discoveries of his adopted home. He took Tom to a long forgotten children's playground, hidden among overgrown trees of a park. Lush green plants overtook the hopscotch board and other abandoned equipment.
Tom sat down on one end of a neglected see saw and watched as Peter skipped over the hopscotch squares on one foot.
"I stumbled on to this place last year. It reminds me of a story my nurse used to read me, The Secret Garden." He hopped over to Tom. "I come here when I want to think."
"Or if you want to play on the teeter totter." Tom joked.
Peter shook his head. "I've never brought anyone here before."
Tom swallowed nervously. "Not even that cellist?"
Peter didn't say anything for a few seconds. When he did, his voice wavered. "Matteo. It ended badly."
Obviously, it hurt Peter to recall the memory. Tom was sorry to have mentioned it. He placed a hand on Peter's and stroked it reassuringly.
Tears had begun to well up in Peter's eyes.
"I'm sorry for bringing it up. I saw the pictures at your house. I didn't mean to bring back any bad memories."
Peter smiled through his tears, his thumb gliding over Tom's hand. "It's not that at all. I thought I'd never find anyone to love again and - here you are. Perfection."
Tom never closer to anyone in his life. He was suddenly ashamed of all the time spent being enthralled with Dickie. Imagine, he'd almost killed himself over that jerk. Tom realised how incredibly lucky he was, and despite his best efforts, started to cry too.
Peter sniffed. "Aren't we a bunch of babies?"
Tom raised himself off the see saw and looked through bleary eyes at Peter. "I love you too."
"We've only known each other a few days. This is madness." He gripped onto Tom's hand tighter.
Tom brought a hand up to Peter's face and wiped the tears from his cheek. "It doesn't matter. I adore everything about you."
Peter laughed and his hair fell into his eyes. Tom was quick to put it back in place. "I especially love when that happens."
For a few moments, they stood still. Their timid minds resisting what their bodies were aching to do. Peter moved in first, letting his lips brush against Tom's. They caressed each other carefully, each taste taken with tenderness. Eventually, they broke apart from each other, neither wanting the moment to end.
Tom stretched up to place a kiss on Peter's forehead. "I guess I'll put off looking for another place to live."
Peter squeezed Tom's arm. "Hey, you're not doing all this just to get a free ride, are you? I give you a job and a home, and what do I get?"
Tom ran a finger mischievously ran a finger up Peter's chest. "You'll just have to see."
And to make sure that Peter knew his intentions were honest, Tom pressed his mouth to his and kissed him deeply and passionately.
They walked back to the apartment, wanting to clasp their hands together, but having to settle for the promise of what they could do in the privacy of their home.
The End
***
Tom has been dumped by Dickie after the disastrous boat incident (see my previous story San Remo if you want to know more). This is an alternate story where Dickie wasn't murdered. Bascially, Tom has been rejected and feeling quite sorry for himself, and doesn't know if he has anything to look forward to anymore.
***
Tom sat on the beach staring out into the water thinking of the events that just passed. Dickie's desertion still stung two days later. He looked down at himself, his clothes crumpled from having spent the last night sleeping outside. He hadn't any money, and to top it off, everything he owned in the world and was inside a cheap cardboard suitcase. What he had done to deserve this torture alluded him.
He sighed and commanded himself to stop dwelling on this failure. He couldn't spend any more time thinking of Dickie. There must be something else to look forward to. The world didn't revolve around that arrogant man. Tom had to admit being miserable in Italy was a lot better than being miserable in New York. But yet, the beauty of this country wasn't moving him right now. It was hard to enjoy anything without being reminded of the past.
What Tom dreaded losing most was the chance to absorb the culture of this place. There would be no operas, museums, or architecture to appreciate now. If he wanted to listen to Bach, it'd have to be endured through the tinny sound of a record player. He would never experience the pure, clean notes of a world class orchestra live.
Tom sighed and once again thought of the security that death would provide. Then he had an idea, perhaps if we went to a new part of Italy. One that didn't bring back memories. A place like Venice. And if he was still unhappy, he could always jump into the canal. Let the gondoliers fish his bloated corpse from the water. Tom laughed, feeling better already. The only problem now was how to get Venice.
Stealing seemed the only solution to acquire the funds. He glanced at the few people on the beach, it didn't seem too likely that they would carry money with them. If the men carried wallets, he thought he'd be able to pick their pockets. It would be impossible to do out in the open. A crowd was needed for Tom's fingers to be able to work. He looked in the direction of an ice cream cart. A small mob of children and their parents buzzed around. Tom saw his opportunity.
He joined the line behind a fat man, kept busy by the screaming of his two kids. Tom made out they were fighting over which flavor they wanted. The man tried to calm his children, and did not notice when Tom's hand slipped in to his back pocket and removed his wallet.
Tom made sure no one was watching, then walked away cleanly. He got up to the street, and walked as fast as he could to the train station. He hoped there was enough money inside to get to Venice. He didn't risk stopping to check.
At the station, Tom checked the wallet in the men's washroom. To Tom's relief there was more than enough for a ticket. He pocketed the cash and threw the wallet into a trash can.
Tom stepped onto the train. As soon as he sat down in his chair, he fell asleep, and did not wake until he arrived in Venice later that afternoon.
Tom was instantly refreshed by the city. He looked upon the new faces that spoke with the slightly different accents with curiosity. He bought himself a pastry from a street vendor and sat down at the steps of an impressive looking church to eat.
He was looking at his grubby hands, telling himself how badly he needed a bath, when a voice interrupted.
"Are you okay?"
Tom looked up at the elegant man standing over him. "I'm fine," Tom stood up. "I was only resting."
The Englishman smiled. "Sorry. You looked a little down on your luck. Still, it's great to hear the english language once in a while." He offered his hand. "Peter Smith-Kinglsey."
Tom's smile froze with recognition. Surely this was the same man Marge had mentioned to him once before. She did say he lived in Venice. If it was him, did he know who Tom was? Had Marge spoke kindly of him? Enough time had passed for Marge to post a letter recounting that horrible house guest of Dickie's who left suddenly. Tom briefly considered using a fake name to introduce himself, then decided against it. Bad reputation or not, being a friend of a friend was a definite advantage.
The men shook hands. "Tom Ripley. I think I've heard your name before.."
Peter smiled modestly. "I'm an opera repetiteur, perhaps you've attended one of my concerts."
"Since this is my first time in Venice, probably not. I wonder, do you know a Marge Sherwood? She's American as well."
"I do. You weren't just staying at Dickie's? Of course you were, I remember now. Marge mentioned a charming young man from New York in a letter a few months ago. What a coincidence that we should meet. Come have a coffee with me."
Tom studied the man. He didn't seem a threat at all; nicely dressed, well spoken, kind eyes. Tom felt at ease and agreed to go with him.
"Splendid. There's a cafe up the street."
On the walk there, they talked some more. Tom came up with a respectable story on how he came to Venice, nothing too fanciful. "I'm just passing through. I've been on foot the past few days, exploring the country. That's why I'm so shabby looking. I couldn't bear experiencing Italy through the windows of trains."
Peter offered to take the suitcase off Tom's hands. "I can see already why Marge spoke highly of you. She has impeccable taste when it comes to friends."
"Obviously, if you're among them." They came to the cafe, sat down and ordered their drinks.
Tom told the story of how Mr. Greenleaf recruited him for this mission, and how sorry he was that it had failed. He liked Dickie, but thought he was a bit stubborn, not to follow his father's wishes and return home. Peter sympathised with Tom's regrets of having let down the elder Greenleaf. In between sips of coffee, Peter told him he had no right to feel guilty. There was no need to worry about taking advantage of anyone, he had tried his best.
"I'm glad you enjoy Italy so much. I've lived here three years and don't miss England in the slightest." Peter said.
"I'm trying to get back to the states, but every morning I wake up and think, 'I haven't been to Venice!'. One more day to be a tourist, then I'm on that ship home. The next thing I know, I'm in a new city, and I don't want to leave."
Peter smiled. "Why don't you stay then? If your Italian's good you could get a job somewhere. I could probably find you a cheap place. Unless, there's some business that needs your attention in New York."
Tom pretended to consider the idea. He didn't want to appear desperate. Thank God for this man, he thought, he had surely saved his life. Tom laughed to himself, realising how dramatic he was.
"That's a great idea. I can't believe I didn't think of it."
Peter signaled for the check. "You can stay at my place. I'd be more than glad to take you in."
Tom adored Peter's apartment, and told him so. He marveled at the art on the walls, the books on the shelves, and most adoringly, the piano in the corner. It was the one possession that Tom felt was worth owning. He slid his fingers across the keyboard, delighting in the sound.
"Do you play?" Peter asked.
"Not as much as I like to. Hard to do, when you're homeless." Tom turned to look at the photographs on the wall. Most were of Peter conducting.
Peter stood behind Tom. "It seems a bit vain to have photos of yourself plastered on the wall. But, you can't blame me, I didn't do the decorating."
Tom suddenly felt like he was intruding. It sounded as if someone else lived here too. "Oh, you have a roommate? I can go to a hotel, if it's too cramped. I don't mind at all."
Peter shook his head, and Tom saw sadness in his eyes. "No. Not-- There's no one else." He shrugged off whatever the memory was. "Tom, don't worry about being a nuisance. You're not. Would you like a drink? I'm so so at martinis, but fabulous at Manhattans."
"That's fine. Thanks."
Peter left Tom to explore the room. Posters from various concerts at respectable venues showcased that Peter was quite successful in his job. There was one small photograph on the wall of Peter and another man mugging for the camera. Tom smiled at the goofiness of Peter's pose, his eyes crossed, mouth twisted up into a huge grin. Tom's eyes drifted from this to a picture frame turned face down on the mantle. He flipped it over to see the same dark haired man and Peter in a more intimate pose. They looked very happy, he thought. Tom replaced the frame and looked back up at the wall, searching for more signs of the mystery man. He found him again, this time in a group photo of the orchestra. He was a cello player, and Tom guessed, an Italian. The possibility that Peter could be nursing a broken heart was enormously appealing to him.
Peter strolled in with the drinks. "Here we are then." He handed Tom his glass. "A toast?"
"To Italy?" It seemed like a safe thing to celebrate, Tom thought.
"To Italy then. Cheers." Their glasses clinked together.
Tom settled into the spare room that Peter prepared for him. It was small, but preferable to where he spent the night before this. He crept under the covers, fresh from a bath, and fell asleep instantly.
Peter let him sleep late. He woke up at 11, eager for a new start. He dressed and found Peter had breakfast ready.
"You shouldn't have done all this." He glanced at the scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, hot coffee and other goodies on the table. "You could have slapped some cheese and crackers together, and I'd be just as happy."
"Well, I was going to say if you wanted to start looking for a job today, that you needed a big meal to keep you going. But, while I was waking for Sleeping Beauty to wake up, I thought of a better idea. I'm always behind in organizing my music and such for the next day's practise. An assistant would really help me out. You could tune the instruments, transcribe extra parts, what have you. Nothing too strenuous."
Tom didn't even have to think about it. "I'd love to. I can't think of anything that would please me more."
"It's settled then. Mind you, it doesn't pay very much. It's enough to keep you off the streets, though." Peter poured a cup of coffee for his guest. "Anytime you want to go apartment hunting, just tell me. I can even help you financially at the start, if you want to get settled sooner."
"Peter, you're doing so much as it is. Don't be so nice, it's making me suspicious."
Peter's face twitched a little, and he sat down. "Just so you know, I make no effort to hide what I am. If you're offended, I'd rather you tell me now. I'm not much for hidden prejudices."
Tom looked Peter in the eyes, trying to convey how much his kindness meant to him. "I'm not bothered at all. I'm just overwhelmed. No one's been so good to me before."
Then he thought of his first days of acceptance in Mongibello. That seemed wonderful at the start too. What if this situation went sour too? No, this was different. Peter was different. "I think you're great, as a matter of fact." Honesty came easy when talking to this man.
Peter smiled as he buttered a piece of toast. "Hmm... Maybe there won't be a need for you go apartment hunting at all."
A huge grin engulfed Tom's face. He had never been flirted with. Ever. He quite truthfully didn't know what to say or do. He hoped that a smile would suffice.
The next few days were spent touring the city. Peter showed him all the famous attractions; the gondola rides through the canals, the museums. Peter was more proud of his own discoveries of his adopted home. He took Tom to a long forgotten children's playground, hidden among overgrown trees of a park. Lush green plants overtook the hopscotch board and other abandoned equipment.
Tom sat down on one end of a neglected see saw and watched as Peter skipped over the hopscotch squares on one foot.
"I stumbled on to this place last year. It reminds me of a story my nurse used to read me, The Secret Garden." He hopped over to Tom. "I come here when I want to think."
"Or if you want to play on the teeter totter." Tom joked.
Peter shook his head. "I've never brought anyone here before."
Tom swallowed nervously. "Not even that cellist?"
Peter didn't say anything for a few seconds. When he did, his voice wavered. "Matteo. It ended badly."
Obviously, it hurt Peter to recall the memory. Tom was sorry to have mentioned it. He placed a hand on Peter's and stroked it reassuringly.
Tears had begun to well up in Peter's eyes.
"I'm sorry for bringing it up. I saw the pictures at your house. I didn't mean to bring back any bad memories."
Peter smiled through his tears, his thumb gliding over Tom's hand. "It's not that at all. I thought I'd never find anyone to love again and - here you are. Perfection."
Tom never closer to anyone in his life. He was suddenly ashamed of all the time spent being enthralled with Dickie. Imagine, he'd almost killed himself over that jerk. Tom realised how incredibly lucky he was, and despite his best efforts, started to cry too.
Peter sniffed. "Aren't we a bunch of babies?"
Tom raised himself off the see saw and looked through bleary eyes at Peter. "I love you too."
"We've only known each other a few days. This is madness." He gripped onto Tom's hand tighter.
Tom brought a hand up to Peter's face and wiped the tears from his cheek. "It doesn't matter. I adore everything about you."
Peter laughed and his hair fell into his eyes. Tom was quick to put it back in place. "I especially love when that happens."
For a few moments, they stood still. Their timid minds resisting what their bodies were aching to do. Peter moved in first, letting his lips brush against Tom's. They caressed each other carefully, each taste taken with tenderness. Eventually, they broke apart from each other, neither wanting the moment to end.
Tom stretched up to place a kiss on Peter's forehead. "I guess I'll put off looking for another place to live."
Peter squeezed Tom's arm. "Hey, you're not doing all this just to get a free ride, are you? I give you a job and a home, and what do I get?"
Tom ran a finger mischievously ran a finger up Peter's chest. "You'll just have to see."
And to make sure that Peter knew his intentions were honest, Tom pressed his mouth to his and kissed him deeply and passionately.
They walked back to the apartment, wanting to clasp their hands together, but having to settle for the promise of what they could do in the privacy of their home.
The End