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“Yeah, that’s bullshit, sorry.”
“Arlo…”
“Dad, just do not add that clause, please. I’m asking as politely as I can here.”
“Very well, that clause will be removed.”
“Can you erase it from Signor Piravino’s contract as well?”
“No, Arlo, I cannot. He will be fine, trust me. This is how business works, my son.”
“Hmmm.”
“I know that sound. Behave, Arlo.”
“I make no promises.” I heard a soft chuckle roll out of him, and I smiled just a little. “I have to go. I need to find my friend. He and his grandmother had some hot words, and he raced off on that damn sketchy motorbike of his.”
“Of course, go find your friend. We’ll talk later, son. Ciao.”
“Ciao, papà.”
“Addio, al mio bellisimo figlio.”
The call ended. I stared down at my cell. He’d said goodbye, my beautiful son. I had to clear my throat. Beautiful son. To hear that hit me hard. Dashing at a stray tear trickling down my cheek, I checked my texts. Nothing from Donvino. I hit up Bianca. She hadn’t seen or heard from him either. It was twice as upsetting hearing he hadn’t gone to his cousin. Bianca was his sounding post, the only person aside from me that he could vent to about the feeling of suffocation that living in the closet forced on a soul. Where was he? I began pacing while texting, sending lots of questioning texts riddled with exclamation points.
I was worked into a fine froth and this close to calling the polizia when my phone pinged. Of course I was taking a piss when it did, so I had to shake, tuck, and wash my hands at the speed of sound, and then dive on my phone resting beside the sink. It was Donvino.
“Finally!” I gasped, throwing myself back to my soft yellow bed to reply.
Where R U?! I was going to call cops. ~ A
I took a ride. Out to the country. To think. I am fine. ~ D
Where R U? I want to come to you. I am so worried. ~ A
That you worry is lovely. I am outside Valle Sicuro. Will you come? ~ D
Yes! Where exactly R U? ~ A
The Pheasant Call. Small bar with food. I will order us wine and pasta. Come please soon. ~ D
I shall fly to you on gossamer wings! ~ A
Never let it be said that Arlo Bonetti lacked flair.
I grabbed my keys, jumped into my darling little Bianchina, and was off. The Tuscan countryside rolled by unseen, as I was too busy fretting over Donvino. He’d sounded so sad, so lost, the poor man. Not being privy to the whole showdown, I was lacking the details, but I was pretty sure I knew the gist of things. A poppy dance tune, something about chaos in the sea if I were translating it right, filled my green-and-white car. That made me think of my tutor and my great-aunt, then my father and his heartfelt words about loving who your heart wished you to love, which led me to Donvino. Yes, I loved him. Sweaty hands white-knuckled around the slim steering wheel, I shuddered out a breath.
There. I had said it. Well, to myself. I loved him. I’d gone and done it. Let someone tap, tap, tap away at the masonry surrounding my heart until they’d picked away a break in my defenses. A shy, beautiful man my Donvino was, struggling with himself and his life, just like me in so many ways, yet so different.
The dust blowing in the windows made my eyes water. Yep, that was it. I was not crying. I refused to do that before I met with Donvino. He would need me to be the strong one. As I slowed to make the sharp right into the sleepy village of Valle Sicuro, I vowed I would not let him down. A stonework bridge spanned a sliver of what was, I had to assume, a mighty river. Now it was a mere trickle. Slowing after I crossed the bridge, I rolled into a charming town, if one could call a burg this small a town. Sitting on a sloping hillside, it overlooked tens of thousands of olive trees, all Bonetti owned. Our name was everywhere. Decals in windows of every tiny eatery and deli bore the Bonetti logo. Obviously, this village had been built to house the workers in the nearby orchards. The homes were soft tans and yellows, bright doors and open windows looking down on cobblestone streets. Flowers struggled to bloom in pots or window boxes, the drought sapping even the most hardy of flora. The streets were narrow, barely allowing for my teensy car to navigate properly.
At the end of the main drag, I found The Pheasant Call. ‘Il richiamo del fagiano’ was written on the sign which displayed a cock pheasant in flight. Parked along the curb were several bikes, one being the Suzuki I knew so well. I made a pass, then another, and finally just pulled up to park with the righthand tires on the curb about a block away. A thin black dog watched me pass his home, the front door open, his tongue lolling, the rich smell of fish cooking wafting into the street.
I pushed into the eatery. The cooler interior felt wonderful. It was a small place with only six tables and a small bar. Donvino was seated in the corner, his large frame filling the small chair that had to be struggling to hold him up. His dark eyes met mine and a weak smile pulled at his lips.
“You are here,” he said as I crossed by an old man eating a plate of clams and linguine in a watery red sauce. The old fellow shouted to someone in the kitchen and then returned to his meal. I sat across from Donvino, trying not to pay too much attention to the old banner on the wall with Alcide De Gaspiri in bold red letters, Italia in green, and an image of a man in glasses that I had to assume was this Alcide.
“Who is that?” I asked as I righted my yellow vest, tugging it into place and then jerking my chin at the sun-bleached banner.
