26

Do You Want My Advice, Querido?

Mi amor. Mi vida. Te quiero tanto—te quiero, te quiero.

No te dejaré nunca.

Te prometo.

Por eso...por favor...

No me dejes, mi amor. Mi vida.

Three weeks.

Toni would have to go three weeks without Romano by his side, without Romano lying next to him in bed, without Romano's temper tantrums and insults and inevitable declarations of undying affection. Toni would have to go three weeks without feeling the overwhelming love, without being able to wrap his arms around the trembling, slender figure of his dark and tormented love. It hurt him to think like that—not to mention the fact that they hadn't been able to spend much time together since María's departure. He was awfully lonely. He missed Romano. He missed being on guard, knowing that Romano could burst into his room at any moment, arms either wide open or tightly shut. He missed having conversations in Spanish, Italian, Sicilian, English—declaring love in any language conceivable.

It snowed every day the week following Romano's departure to Sicily. The first few days, Toni stayed in his apartment, watching the flakes dance against his window and listening to Juanjo Dominguez. He tried to write, and even managed to get a few pages in, but it was difficult. He needed a lot of wine and Romano's voice in his head to even write a single word. He was suddenly worried about finishing this novel; María had liked the idea, and he was of the opinion that it would be popular at least to the masses, if not to literary critics. But he wasn't sure if he had the heart to finish it, especially if he were to kill the Sicilian boy in the end. The way that María had suggested. Would that be fair to his muse, he thought? To kill him? It didn't seem right and, though he admitted it was the most fitting end for the Spanish general, he wasn't sure if he would be able to go through with it. He made a note to talk to his editor, a charming Mexican man named Eduardo, about it.

Sometimes he would walk into the kitchen and expect to find Romano rummaging through his fridge, searching for the tomatoes that he so loved, and then he would laugh at himself when he found himself alone. Other times, when he was getting ready to go into the shower, he would pause and peek his head into the bedroom to ask Romano if he cared to join him—and would, again, laugh at himself when there was nobody there to say, "If you insist" or "Shut up, dirty old pervert."

Before he went to bed every night, he would send a little message to Romano's phone.

"Buenas noches cariño, te quiero y te extraño. Que descanses, y que te disfrutes en Palermo con tu hermanito."

He tried to do it in Italian once, but he woke up the next morning with a kindly worded message telling him how strange and formal it sounded. So he decided to stick to Spanish. But he and Romano didn't talk much other than that; Toni figured that Romano was busy. And he was, from the bottom of his beating Spanish heart, so happy for his Romano. He was happy that Romano could travel somewhere and feel at home, that he could spend time with someone other than Toni and feel welcomed, that he could be so busy and so swept off his feet that he didn't have time to respond. Once, though, Romano sent him a beautiful picture. It was of him and his brother, cheeks brushing, holding the phone and taking a picture with the sea spread out behind them. Feliciano, his skin and hair much lighter, was smiling and holding the phone and using his other arm to hold tightly to his brother. Romano seemed to be in the middle of yelling at him, but there was a red fluster in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. He looked happy. They were leaning against a Vespa. The caption read, "missing your stupid tomato face."

"Que guapitos," Toni responded.

In the evenings he would go out with Gilbert and François, sometimes get drunk and sometimes not. He was grateful that they were there to distract him and listen to him and make him laugh.

But still. Toni was lonely.

After a few days, though Toni didn't like snow very much, he became sick of staying cooped up in his apartment during the day. So he put on a large coat, a scarf, gloves, a red and yellow hat, and large black boots, and went to take a stroll across campus. He considered bringing his notebook, in case inspiration were to unexpectedly strike, but decided against it knowing that he would rather die than take his gloves off in this cold. When he had asked Arthur upon his arrival whether it snowed much, Arthur had assured him that it didn't. This year, apparently, was an exception.

Toni felt himself drawn to the spot at the top of the stairwell, with the tree and the ledge, where he had secretly witnessed Romano's breakdown. He listened, in the absence of another voice at his side, to the sound of snow crushed beneath his boot as he made his way there. He had his hands in his pockets and his scarf drawn up around his mouth and nose, his hat pulled down over his ears. It wasn't snowing very hard, but it was chilly enough that every few moments a shiver overcame his body. The sky was blue, with gray clouds slowly languidly rolling by, and the ground around him was a very pure, very bright white.

As he walked up the stairs, he heard a soft voice and froze. Somebody else was there, and in an uncharacteristic moment of antisocialness, Toni considered turning back. But even as he told himself to go a different way, he kept walking up the stairs, until he emerged into the alcove. There was somebody else there—someone that he recognized, sitting on his back in the snow, his gloved hand sitting lightly on the trunk of the barren tree. He was wearing a jacket similar to Toni's, gloves, a red, white, and blue scarf. Even dressed more lightly than Toni, he didn't look as cold. And even from this distance, Toni recognized him. It was the American boy, Alfred. He must not have noticed Toni come up, because he continued talking to himself. Quietly, but animatedly. Tapping his fingers against the tree's trunk and pausing every few moments to catch his breath. Toni couldn't hear what he was saying, and hesitated before moving toward the tree.

"Hola, Alfred," Toni said. Behind his foggy glasses, Alfred's blue eyes shifted and he sat up. His dry lips turned into a smile.

"Oh, hey writer Prof," he said.

"You can just call me Toni."

"Sweet. You can call me Al, if you want. I don't really care what you call me, to be honest."

He had a very easy way of conversing. He could speak to somebody he had only just met as if they were his best friend. It reminded Toni of himself. He could fall into conversation very easily with someone like Alfred.

"You didn't go home for the holidays?" Toni asked.

"Nah, it's far and expensive. Not really worth it to fly across the pond, in my opinion," he shrugged. "I've seen enough Christmas trees in New York to last a lifetime, anyway. And I have friends who are staying on campus too so I'm not lonely or anything."

"That's good to hear. Is your family in New York?"

"Yeah."

"Do you miss them?"

"Um..." he paused. Then he smiled again, gently, and began to play with a loose thread in his right glove. "Yeah, I guess. Can't I say that I'm real desperate to go back though. I think I miss New York City more than I miss actually being at home...does that make sense?"

"Claro."

"I like the UK. People here are nice. Even out here in the middle of nowhere."

"You're right."

"Like, I know I'm American, but somehow being here makes me feel even more American," he chuckled.

"I feel that way, too."

"Do you miss Spain?"

"Very much. But I like to travel. I'm not used to staying in one spot for very long."

"Me, neither. I moved around a lot as a kid. I was born in DC...lived in Los Angeles, Houston, Cleveland, Chicago, Boston...been in the Big Apple for the last five years. My family was pretty surprised when I decided to come here for uni."

"Ah. It's a very prestigious school, though."

"Yeah, no, it definitely is. I'm glad I got in," he smiled. "To be honest I didn't think I would."

They fell into an awkward silence, and suddenly Alfred's scarf evoked images of Arthur Kirkland tinkering with the American flag in his office in Toni's mind. He wondered why Alfred had been talking to himself.

"Hey, Toni."

"¿Sí, mi hijo?"

"Do you mind if I...um, do you mind if I rant a little?"

"Rant?"

"Yeah. I mean, sometimes I like to come here and rant to the tree. You probably heard me, actually. I'm not crazy, I promise. I just...I like to talk out loud when I'm having problems. And sometimes it's nice if someone's listening. You don't have to give me advice or anything."

"Ah, bueno...feel free, but don't you think it would help to talk to someone who knows you better?"

"I always find that it's more useful to talk to someone who doesn't know me. Then they're not totally prejudiced or whatever," Alfred shrugged. He was still playing with the loose thread. "If it makes you feel uncomfortable you don't have to. I know it's probably weird, a student who doesn't really know you asking this."

"No pasa nada. You can rant to me if you need to, hijo. It's my job to help students."

"Cool. Uh...well, I was telling the tree before you got here that I've really been feeling like shit lately. I mean, not just lately...but especially lately."

Alfred paused, and scooped up a handful of snow. He poked holes in it with his finger and Toni watched it melt in his hands.

"You know how if you've had a lot of responsibilities for a long time, you feel like you can handle it? Like, you're confident in yourself and sometimes you even feel like you could take on the world. You feel like you're strong, and like you're a hero. And it's the best feeling in the world."

As he spoke, his face lit up. The stars in his eyes sparkled and Toni could see the pride, the excitement, the confidence in his whiter-than-the-snow smile.

"You feel like you can do anything. And you tell everyone that. Like, hey guys, look! I can do it! I can really do it. And they know you can, too. They know you can because...well, they've been relying on you to do it. You've been their hero the whole time. You've been holding them up when things get rough. The world is on your shoulders, and it has been for ages, but you don't mind because you're strong. You're really fucking strong."

His smile became smaller, his fingers stopped moving, and his eyes became vacant.

"Then your shoulders start to hurt. But by that time nobody's thinking about you anymore. You're like...you're like the hero that's always there, but everyone has forgotten about because you've been there for so long, with the same responsibilities. But your shoulders really, really hurt. You have too many responsibilities and you don't have anybody to help you. And when you try to ask for help people tell you that they can't help you—how could they? How could they possibly help you do something that you've been doing for so long, how could they possibly help someone so much stronger than they are? You know? And now you feel taken advantage of, and neglected. And you hurt. You really hurt. You feel like it's your fault. You're supposed to be the hero, the one holding everyone up, the strongest of the strong. You're not good enough anymore, you're not good enough for anyone."

The snow in his hands had melted. Toni watched the muscles of Alfred's face twist from relaxed to tense, and felt the pangs of sympathy and compassion inside his vulnerable heart.

"But you can't tell them that. You can't tell anyone that. Not just because you'd feel like a failure, a total idiot, but because...I mean, they're not listening anymore."

Toni couldn't say that he understood, because he didn't. He had no idea.

"And then finally, you find someone who might share your burden. You find someone that makes your heart feel all fuzzy, someone that makes you want to be the hero again because they make you stronger. You feel strong again. Damn, do you feel fucking strong. Because someone else is taking the time to tell you that you are. You don't feel so neglected..."

Tears, large and shining like diamonds in the winter sun, streamed down Alfred's flushed cheeks.

"And then you're not good enough for them, either."

He quickly wiped the tears, and then brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin on top of them.

"They're not by your side. They're not there anymore to tell you that you're strong. That you're a hero. You're still alone because you're not fucking good enough." He smiled again, but it was a small, sad, dry smile.

"And you had been thinking, wow. I found somewhere I can be the real hero that I can be. I found it. I found home. Because your old home doesn't feel like home anymore—the people there don't care. What matters there is when you fuck up and the world comes crashing down and everyone thinks, what happened to him? Why isn't he doing his job? And you don't wanna go back there, you don't wanna go back to a place where the only time you're noticed is when you fuck up. When you're not good enough anymore."

Alfred Jones was terribly sad. Toni could see that.

"But no matter where you go you're not good enough. The new home you found doesn't want you."

He dropped his voice to a murmur, so quiet that Toni could hardly hear him.

"He doesn't want me."

"Al, querido, do you want my advice? I can't promise I can really help but I can try."

He nodded silently.

"I think that it takes a lot of time, a lot of patience, and a lot of struggle to find a real home. Sometimes home is not a single place, but many places that are pieced together to give you different things that you need. And sometimes places you thought were home weren't."

Toni paused, swallowed, felt the lump grow in his throat as the words struggled to surpass it.

"But the hardest part is when you think you've found home, but in the end, it's not. It's not the home that you thought it was, or the home that you needed."

"What if you know that it's home, you really feel like it's home, but they tell you that it's not? They push you out of it, even if you wanna stay?"

"That's even harder, because sometimes you can't see the side that someone else can."

"Wh...what do you mean?"

"When we have so many responsibilities for so long, like you said, we can lose sight of what's really best for ourselves. We think we know what we need, and how to get it, but we can be wrong. Very, very wrong. We can make mistakes and we can be blinded by what has happened to us in the past. That's why we need other people in our life to support us, and tell us that something isn't good for us when we are convinced that it is."

"But if it's really right, why does it hurt so damn much?"

"In the short term, of course it will. That's why we can't see that it's right."

"I just feel abandoned. I don't feel like it's helping me." Alfred paused, took a deep breath. "But I guess I'm not the only one who's hurting, huh? Some hero I am. Pretty selfish, right."

"No, not selfish. But you're young. You have a lot to learn. Don't force yourself to find your place—you'll find it."

Alfred began to draw patterns in the snow, and Toni felt a pain constricting his chest. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Hey. Did you end up finding a muse?"

"Eh?"

"A muse. Did you find one? Did you get over your writer's block, or whatever?"

"Oh. Actually, yes."

"Awesome! Glad to hear it."

Alfred's smile at that moment, genuine and wide, made Toni's entire being flare up. His eyes were still wet, his lips shaking, his fists clenching at the cloth of his pants, but he was smiling. It was a smile from deep down, it was a smile of gratitude and hopefulness. Toni did his best to smile back, but he worried that it might have looked more like a grimace.

"Thanks for listening to me, Prof. Hope I didn't bum you out."

"I just hope I was helpful."

"Definitely."

"Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it."

"Right. See ya around."

François invited Gilbert and Toni to his flat for wine, cheese, and supposed 'fine dining.' Not much to Toni's surprise, the cuisine was unfathomably delicious, the wine aged and elegant, the cheese sharp and mild and everything in between. When they had finished the meal, they grabbed their wine goblets and François turned on his electric fireplace and they sat on his spotless, white sofas. Toni had always been awed by François's grace and elegance, but he was even more so in his own home, his own kitchen, pouring wine into his own goblets. Toni forced himself to be at ease here, with his friends, his companions.

"Ah, I can't say I enjoy winter very much, but I don't mind nights like this," he sighed, sinking into the pillows. He crossed one leg over the other and lit a cigarette. Even his ashtray was beautifully carved diamond.

"I agree. I like the sun much more," Gilbert nodded. "But I have to say, I prefer beer to wine."

"Germans are all the same," François sighed, throwing a wink in Toni's direction. Toni grinned and took another sip of his wine. He wondered what sort of troubles François and Gilbert were having at that moment. Family troubles? Financial troubles? Romantic troubles, like himself?

"Oi, amigos, can I ask you something?"

"Bien sûr, cheri."

"What's the most memorable love affair that you've ever had?" he asked. Gilbert and François both raised their eyebrows.

"Memorable like...good or bad?" Gilbert replied.

"Either. Just most memorable."

"Eh, bien...a tough question...I've had so many lovers," François began.

"Stupid Frenchman," Gilbert sighed. "I'll go first then."

"Even I know Gil's story," François interrupted. "Did you know, Toni, that Gil was engaged?"

"Engaged? No!"

"Oui."

"To whom?"

"This gorgeous Hungarian girl," Gilbert blurted, a crooked smile on his face. He ran a hand through his silver hair and leaned back. "We had been friends since childhood, and she asked me to marry her. I said yes."

"¿Y entonces?"

Gilbert shrugged.

"We were too similar. Confident, intense, loud, feisty—we realized that we couldn't handle being together for long periods of time. We loved each other, but we were too much. We wore each other out. The flames died and that was that. She ended up marrying some Austrian man a year later."

"Ah..."

"But it was a hell of a time." Gilbert was smiling softly and staring into his wine. He puckered his lips and whistled. "Verdammt, a real hell of a time."

"That's beautiful."

"Ja, it was. Would've been hell if I'd married her, though."

"What about you, François?"

"I had an affair with a man from La Cote d'Ivoire once. He was so beautiful, so strong. But so very kind and gentle. Married, of course, but we still had a very passionate affair."

"Married?"

"Oui."

"Why was it memorable?"

"It was the most romantic affair I've ever had. One time, I asked him if he loved me, and he said, in his beautiful French, 'Comme la lune aime la mer, mais pas comme le mari aime la femme.' I asked him what he meant. It was from him that I learned how many loves there are in the human heart. You can never love one person in the same way that you love another—this is why we are so drawn to affairs, even when we are convinced that our marriage or relationship is a happy one. It is because one person cannot always give us every single love that we need. It does not mean we do not love our partners. It just means we love them in a different way than we love someone else."

"That sounds like a load of romantic Kuhscheiße."

"Yes, for someone of limited romantic scope such as yourself," François shot back. Toni could not insert himself into their banter, for he was too focused on picking apart what François had told him.

"What about you, chéri? Your most memorable romance?" François asked, bringing Toni from his murky thoughts.

"Mine? A ver..."

"Not your wife, then?" Gilbert cut in.

Toni smiled, sipped his wine, and shook his head.

"No, not my wife." He considered telling him that his most memorable romance was at that very moment, with the nineteen year-old student from Sicily, whom he loved more than he thought it possible to love anyone or anything.

But he decided against it.

"My high school sweetheart," he lied.

And they knew he was lying.

But they let him lie, and they drank their wine and smoked their cigarettes, warming themselves with the electric fireplace and friendly, easy conversation.

Translations:

que te disfrutes en Palermo con tu hermanito=have fun in Palermo with your little brother

que guapitos=how handsome

verdammt (German)=damn

Comme la lune aime la mer, mais pas comme le mari aime la femme (French)=like the moon loves the sea, but not like a husband loves his wife

Kuhscheiße (German)=bullshit