Alexander Ilderton

‘La Messa di Mezzanotte’

Short story

He closed the front door behind him. Snowflakes clung to his jacket like lint. The wintry chill had followed him inside – he felt it as he unbuttoned his coat, hanging it from a branch on the wooden stand.  

The home was usually quiet in the evening. His mother would often be preparing dinner in the kitchen, his father probably painting in his study. He moved down the hallway towards his father’s office, pulling down his headphones when he heard an eruption of laughter from beneath the door. He leant his weight on the doorhandle and pushed it open slowly to make his presence known. 

“Ben,” his father beamed, cheeks rosy from merriment as his son stepped into the room, “this is our guest. Come in, you’re letting in the draught.”

Ben took a step in and let the door behind him close. The guest was sat opposite his father, looking up at Ben. His eyes were a deep chestnut, pupil and iris almost indistinguishable, loose curls hanging above his brow. His skin was fair, cheeks blushed in maroon. He looked ethereal. The windows were dewy with warmth behind them. Flickering candlelight illuminated the table the two were sat at, orange glinting in the wetness of the glass. Ben stood awkwardly by the door, unsure of whether to join them. He seldom set foot into his father’s studio. Half-painted canvases cluttered the floor, propped up against each other, finished ones adorned the wall. A handful of accolades were scattered across the room, and statuettes became bookends.

“Beniamino.” he said, extending a hand to the sat guest. “You can call me Benji.”

“Clément – it’s nice to meet you Benji.”

“Take him to the Christmas fair tomorrow. He’s joining the family for Mass,” his father said.

“Thank you, Benji – I’m excited to be here! It’s an honour to be welcomed here, I’m a big fan of your father’s work.”

Ben gave him a small smile before leaving them to it. He didn’t want to intrude. His father was a renowned painter in the small Italian town. Local bars hung his work, local galleries oftentimes displaying it, and the wealthier sometimes commissioning it. Occasionally, his father would invite young painters to stay and study with him. Clément was one of them.

The next morning, Ben crawled out of his bed, pulling a brown jumper over his body and wriggling into bleached jeans, tugging the denim over the tongue of fur-lined shoes. He grabbed his watch and hung headphones around his neck, stuffing the cassette player deep into his pocket.

Beniamino was a creature of solitude and habit; each Sunday, he would leave in the morning to study at the local museum. He would sit in front of the paintings and artefacts, sketchbook and pencil in hand. He closed the bedroom door behind him gently and headed down the stairs, peering around the kitchen door to see if it was just his parents or whether the guest was there too.

“Ciccio, come,” his mother beckoned, voice honeyed, “me and your father were just having breakfast, if you want to join.” The table was laden with freshly-squeezed orange juice, cornettos and maritozzo, toasted bread and half-drank cups of coffee. He pulled out a seat next to his mother as she placed some toast onto his plate. He reached for the butter, spreading it thinly across the slices.

“Where’s the guest?” Ben asked in-between bites of toast,

“Clément, he went out this morning.”

“Couldn’t join us for breakfast?”

“Comportati bene, he isn’t here for long. Be kind.”

He finished breakfast and said his goodbyes, his mother pressing a kiss onto his forehead. His father didn’t lift his eyes from the newspaper. He pulled his headphones back onto his head, rewound the cassette tape, and stepped out into the morning cool. 

He traced the path from the outskirts of town to its centre, following along from the lakeside house. He took the same route each time, watching it change through each season. The lake had moved from the warm cyan of summer to an icy lapis. Tree leaves had gone from green to brown to fallen. The well-trodden dirt became paving as he ventured further inwards until he was amongst the town centre. The piazza was bustling with workers arranging string lights and assembling wooden stalls for the market this evening.

The museum was unremarkable, a repurposed terra-cielo tucked down a side street, wedged in between a coffee shop and greengrocers. Red-tiled rooftops and walls licked with chipped marigold lined the street, the fading paint desaturated by the grey sky. He pushed on the entry door.

It was homely inside – the foyer felt like a living room. A receptionist sat at the small desk reading over a demitasse cup of espresso. Ben flashed a smile to her as he walked past. The few rooms the place had were small and unchanging. He preferred it that way. It just felt frozen in time, kept in a comfortable familiarity.

The paintings here seemed stuck in time too. Neoclassical reimaginings of Greco-Roman mythology and classical depictions of pastoral Italian landscapes like the ones his father would paint. He passed through each room slowly, taking his time to look for details in paintings he might’ve missed, observing the ones they had brought back out from storage. He pushed on the door to the last room – the largest of the few by far – and was taken aback.

Clément was perched on a wooden stool, canvas sitting on an easel in front of him, a plastic palette resting on his lap. Morning light smothered the room, running its fingers through his hair, wreathing his brown curls with soft gold. A marble statue centred the room. The stone woman lay dramatically, holding her head with one hand and a basket of grapes with another. 

“What are you painting?” Ben began, eyes flitting between the painting and the painter.

“The statue – c’est Vénus.” 

Bunches of mauve muscat draped over the edges of her wicker basket, hands cradling the punnet on the canvas. Her figure lay outstretched on the chestnut chaise longue, cotton blanket covering her body, cheeks claret. Eyes a bright blue, hair a deep gold. 

“Goddess of love?”

“Love, prosperity, fertility.”

Clément turned around to look at the other, a petite smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Ben decided to join him. He grabbed one of the stools that were folded and propped up against the wall and set it up next to the guest.

“I usually come here to paint or draw too. It’s how I get my practice in.”

“You do this too?”

Ben opened his sketchbook, showing the other some of his previous drawings – watercolour mountainscapes and conté gatherings he had seen in paintings here before – before flicking to a fresh page. He started sketching in strokes of charcoal, smudging edges with his fingers and occasionally blowing unwanted dust from the page surface. They talked about their paintings and their habits, their favourite foods and places to visit, getting to know each other letting time slip away from them until eventually Ben closed his sketchbook. 

“Do I get to see?”

“Maybe later.” He responded, a teasing tone to his voice. Clément turned around, his eyes meeting Beniamino’s, before quietly resuming his painting. “I promised my parents I would help around the house this afternoon.”

The rest of the day passed almost like any other Sunday. Clouds casually deepened from white to grey, church bells ringing each hour like always. Birds twittered in their familiar chirps, the lake gargled in its familiar babbles. Almost like any other Sunday, except for Beniamino’s stirring thoughts. He couldn’t escape the niggling thought of Clément as he went about his chores. His father’s guests were often old or uninteresting – or self-centred and pretentious – but Clément.

That evening, he fussed. He perfumed his neck with oakmoss and vetiver. He fastened the cuffs of his shirt with delicacy. He stepped out of his room pristine. Clément was already downstairs, effortlessly angelic, hair haloed by the kitchen lamplight. Ben’s parents buzzed around the two, dancing around the kitchen out of rhythm, telling them to not stay too late and be mindful of beggars. Some half-promises later, they eventually pried themselves out of the parents’ grasp and out the door.

It was cold. Bitterly cold. Ben had noticed it before he felt it, in the cracked coral of Clément’s lips. Then he noticed the river seemed to slow beneath its frozen surface. Trees on the bank bunched their branches together in woody huddles.

When they arrived, the piazza was bustling: groups of choir children carolled for their parents and the passers-by, families dancing around the Christmas tree. The wooden stalls that were dotted around sold handcrafts and food, strudel and polenta. Scents of candied apples and warmed wine hung in the air. Tonight, everyone was at the Christmas market. Tomorrow, they’d be in church for Midnight Mass.

“Vin chaud, Benji?”

“Vin brulè?” Ben repeated in his own language.

They were standing in front of the mulled wine stall. Clément turned and put two fingers up with a nod. The man turned, plunging a ladle into an oak barrel and pouring wine into one cup then a second. A slice of orange soaked in red and a stick of cinnamon bobbed around the drink as they toasted to themselves with the foam cups. The façade was lit by candles and Ben noticed how soft their amber glow was against Clément’s skin. He swore he caught Clément thinking the same thing. 

They weaved between stalls, hands grazing occasionally as they manoeuvred around the crowd. The wine stewed in their stomachs between bites of food. Clément remarked at one point they could’ve brought their own work, pointing to some sketched out scenery on cheap coarse paper resting at a stall front.

Falling snow and the small pools where it had melted on the ground glistened under candles and fairy lights. Ben hadn’t really even noticed it was snowing at first, and by the looks of things  neither had the other until he pushed his foot into one of the puddles.

Clément’s curls were wet from the snow when they stopped under the cover of a portico roof, just out of the way of the crowd. Their laughter clung to the air in a white mist, still warm from the wine. Hands brushed again, a little more purposefully this time. Ben was pointing up towards the sky. He was pointing at nothing much really, just how the green of the lights shimmered against the white of the snowfall. He turned to see if Clément’s eyes were following his gaze, but Clément was just looking at him.

They stood looking at each other in the silence. Hubbub had quietened into white noise, the choiring children softened into distant murmurs. Fairy lights smudged in their periphery like an artificial borealis. They only saw each other. Clément intertwined his fingers with the chain around Ben’s nape, his arm resting gently on his shoulder. Neither leaned in first. There was no pulling together. It was as if they fell into each other. Nothing else mattered right now.

Ben had half expected to turn around to a jeering crowd, spitting at the two at the end of pointed fingers. But there was no hubbub, no violent cursing. Just the delicate falling of snow. They didn’t link fingers until they were halfway back home, the soles of their shoes clacking against cobblestone, their laughter carrying in echoes down the street. The ungodly loud click of the front door opening, and then stillness spilling out.

“They must be asleep.” Ben whispered,

“Then we must try not to wake them.” Clément giggled as they snuck up the stairs, careful of the creaks, gentle-footed as they followed the hallway into Ben’s room. 

He opened the door slowly to avoid the raspy whimper of the hinge, Clément following him in. He had left the curtains undrawn, moonlight casting their creeping silhouettes against the wall. Ben stood with his back against the door for a few moments after closing it, watching the other take in his room. The unmade bed, the unfinished paintings.

“Is this from earlier?” He asked, standing at the desk. “I thought you were sketching the woman, I didn’t realise you were drawing me. I should’ve paid more attention.”

Ben had drawn his curls in charcoal, smudged dust over the cheeks in a blackened blush. Clément turned around, hiding his smile, moving back towards Ben.

They both leaned in this time. The second kiss was faster. Clément’s hands crawled up Ben’s back like ivy, lifting his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. He trailed kisses from his lips to his cheek, pressing one into the line of his jaw, his tongue spilling red around his adams apple, leaving swelling marks of maroon on his neck. Ben’s hands knotted in Clément’s curls.

***

Ben woke up alone. Sunlight came in through frosted windows, resting on the overturned sheets next to him. It was cold. He wriggled into some jeans, slinging a jacket over his shoulders and pushing his feet into some slippers. He left his room to go and get breakfast. 

“Buongiorno, piccolo,” His mother greeted him as he entered the kitchen, “Sleep well?”

“Sì, mamma. Have you seen Clément?”

“He left earlier. With your Father. Are you hungry?” She asked, already placing pastries onto a plate for him.

“Grazie. Can I have some coffee too?”

“There’s some left here, pass me that cup. Tell me when to stop.”

“Stop, stop. Grazie, mamma.”

“How was the fair last night?”

“It was fun. The food was good but it always is.”

Ben quietened as he ate the pastries placed in front of him, listening to his mother’s stories. She was telling him about how the fair used to be when she was younger as he sipped away at his coffee, how she used to take her sisters. But her expression changed as he finished and got up and she noticed his bruised collarbone.

“What’s that mark, amore mio?”

“It’s nothing, just slept funny. I’m going to my room, if that’s okay.”

He felt his mother’s stare linger on him as opened the kitchen door, unsure of what she was thinking. Did she know about what happened last night? Did she wait up listening to make sure they made it home safely? Did she notice Clément’s footsteps never made it back to his own room?

The cassette clicked on as he flopped back onto his bed. Last night was playing over in his mind, rewinding different moments with each cassette click. The kiss – click – the walk home – click. Different melodies came through his headphones, but he kept replaying the same sequence of events. He wondered if Clément was doing the same.

He heard them come in – Clément and his father – but didn’t leave his room to greet them. He could hear them talking about how picturesque the lake was. He ran the shower and ironed his shirt. Midnight mass – la Messa di Mezzanotte – was something Ben and his family attended each year, and tonight was no different. His watch took its usual place on his left wrist.

He came downstairs once he heard the other two come up, clattering sounds from different bedrooms as they shed themselves of the day’s clothes and into something more formal. He was soon joined by his mother, then father, and soon after Clément was walking down the staircase. Ben looked towards the other boy, but Clément averted his eyes. They hadn’t talked. He felt his mother’s hand squeeze his shoulder as she stood up, and he followed suit.

It was dark outside now. The church wasn’t too far of a walk away, but the walk dragged this time. He didn’t care much to join in the conversations of whether fauvism was better than surrealism, or how quaint the ‘petite ville’ was. Ben thought Clément’s voice sounded sickly sweet today. Instead, he just idly chatted with his mother – ‘yes, I’m fine; no, I’m not sure what I’ll pray for yet’. Good health? Prosperity? Someone who would like him back?

The church was gowned in ivy; deep greens grew over the oak frame of the building, hanging above the door and beneath the bell tower. A woman stood at the top of the stairs that lead up to the building from the pavement, figure outlined by the lights hanging from the church facade. Thick black velvet hung from her shoulders, the roomy coat enshrouding her body, sticky with the scent of cigars. Her fingers shone with emerald and ruby, interspersed by gaudy golds, and her ears were ornamented with pinprick diamonds.

“Buona serata, Beniamino!” The old woman bellowed as she scrambled down the steps, draping black trailing behind, pulling Ben into a tight hug as she reached the bottom.

“Buona serata, nonna,” His voice crawled out from beneath the jacket that had enveloped him.

“Who’s this?”

“Clément,” His father said, “He was here to study with me for a few days.”

They turned to head back up the stairs, continuing conversations as they walked slowly for the older woman.

Inside, it was warm. Candles were skewered on tall silver spikes. The walls were adorned with wreaths and crosses between frescoed scenes of the crucifixion and the resurrection. They sat – Clément, father, mother, Beniamino, grandmother – on a pew in the centre-right of the church.

Energy ricocheted from pew to pew as the church organ whooped and both choir and churchgoer alike harmonised, dissipating as the pope began to lead in a Latin prayer. Another hymn. Another prayer. They took turns for most of the night. The church organ dulled again, and the room settled into a moment of silence as people bowed their heads once more. Ben wasn’t sure what he was praying for, if he was praying at all. He felt like he was praying for clarity, but he was praying to the wrong person for that.

It was late when they got back. Ben’s room was coated in a thin film of moonlight. He pulled off his shirt, draping it over a bed post, and left his shoes by the door. He drew the curtains closed before he climbed beneath his bedsheets. Goosebumps gently began to fade as he held himself beneath the duvet. Arms wrapped around his waist, his own this time. The creak of the door – light pushing its way back into the room from the hallway – disturbed his stillness. He didn’t turn to look at who it was.

“You never said goodbye this morning.”

“I know,” Clément paused, “I’m sorry.”

“When do you leave?”

“In a few hours.”

Ben propped himself up on his elbows.

“My train is at five. I’ll be with my family just after noon. It’s the only one running today, you have to understand-”

“Why did you ignore me?”

Clément didn’t reply, just closing the door gently behind him and moving towards the bed. He draped his own shirt over Ben’s before settling quietly into the same spot he slept the night before. The two were now laying side-by-side, nothing and everything between them. Neither pried nor elaborated on the conversation, they just slept under the same covers.Ben woke up alone again the next morning, sheets overturned and pillows dimpled. His father’s visitors always came and went, but Ben quietly wished – over the next morning, the next month, the next Spring – that Clément would return.