Jacopo was aware that their relationship relied on a delicate balance, and he had learned how to maintain control over the ebb and flow of his feelings, never allowing jealousy to get in the way. So far he had succeeded.
But now, a child?
Carlos sat up, suddenly animated and energetic.
“We could have two, each with one of our DNA. Genetically they would be half-siblings. Although I believe that now it is even possible to have twins who carry both dads’ DNA. I have to find out the details because I’m not sure how it works.”
“Please don’t rush,” Jacopo pleaded. “Let’s stop here—this is too overwhelming.”
“Okay.” Carlos sounded hurt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
There was a brief silence. Carlos picked up his book and slowly flicked through the pages. The late-morning breeze was ruffling his hair, which was getting longer than usual. He looked healthy and strong, like a character from Greek mythology, Jacopo thought, letting out a sigh.
“I mean…you realize our lives would change completely? Actually, mine would, since you’re the one who travels all the time for work, so I would end up being the one looking after them or”— he hesitated— “her or him…well, whatever they may be.”
“Are you implying this is the reason I’m asking you?”
“You just said I’m the responsible one.”
“You really believe I’d ask you to be my partner in this life adventure only because I need a…nanny? I can’t believe you think I’m that manipulative.”
“I didn’t say you’re manipulative. I’m just stating a fact. Maybe I’m not ready to change my life. Or maybe this isn’t my wish.”
“Okay, okay, I got it. I’m sorry I brought it up. I was impulsive. Let me just say, though, that whenever I fantasized about this, about a child, raising one, you were always in the picture.”
“Which picture?”
“You and me and the children.”
Jacopo hid his head between his slim hands in an attempt to cover up his impatience.
“Stop. Now.”
Carlos figured he needed to lighten up the mood, and so he forced out a laugh.
“Okay. Just forget everything I said. I’m going to grab a beer—do you want one?” Carlos stood up and walked toward the kitchen door.
Jacopo assented and closed his eyes. He listened to the monotonous song of the crickets. Things could change so drastically at every corner. It was scary.
* * *
The first week in Hera’s house proved a little difficult. The wind began to blow with an uncanny violence. It was the meltemi, Artemis said, the infamous northern wind that blew during the hot months. She came twice a week and made the house sparkle in no time, scrubbing the floors with an almost furious zeal. The wind could last for ten days in a row and drive people literally mad, she said. Carlos and Jacopo tried to ignore it and decided to go swimming anyway. But on the beach the sand kept lashing at their bare skin and got in their eyes while the sea was rough and murky with seaweed, and they gave up. There was too much wind to go for a hike or sit in the garden under the trees, so all four of them ended up staying indoors most of the time, reading, cooking, playing backgammon and getting tetchy when losing.
An underlying tension snaked through the rooms. The kitchen turned into a high-risk zone where petty resentments had to be contained. Carlos and Jacopo were early risers and they always laid the breakfast table for the other couple. They took care to go to the nearby bakery before eight, getting fresh bread and pastries for everyone along with the locally made yogurt, whereas Gabriel and Clara would eat much later with the indolence and languorous glances of people who had just had sex, and without fail they forgot to clear the table or wash their dishes. On the other hand, Clara kept buying delicious sweets made of pistachio nuts and honey in an expensive pastry shop up in the main town, and Carlos kept eating them in the middle of the night because of his insomnia. He never bothered to replenish them and Clara’s irritation escalated, though she never said a word.
Every night, as soon as the wind quieted down, they were anxious to get out of the house, like prisoners at rec time. They made elaborate plans to try the different restaurants scattered around the island, comparing their finds on TripAdvisor in the hope of being rewarded with amazing food. But somehow each choice turned out to be a disappointment: the restaurants were too expensive or too touristy, the moussaka and the fries too soaked in oil. They would drive back to the house in silence, each nursing resentment against the one who had suggested that particular venue.
The truth was that the new quartet was having a difficult time coalescing.
* * *
Gabriel was handsome and mysterious, just as Clara had described him: tall, with a dark complexion, a full baby mouth and straight chestnut hair that kept falling on his face on one side; he was constantly pulling it back behind his right ear. After meeting him for the first time, just before their departure from Rome, Carlos and Jacopo had discussed at length his good looks and specific parts of his body that they either approved of or were disappointed by, and they were thrilled by the prospect of spending three weeks in his company. But Gabriel turned out to be harder to befriend than they expected. He was gracious and well mannered, but often silent. His quiet demeanor intimidated them. They suspected it was a weapon he used in order to keep people at a distance.
“He’s very shy, but he’ll warm up to you; he just has to get to know you better,” Clara had promised them. But his shyness felt like a barrier they inevitably crashed against whenever they attempted to endear themselves to him with their witty remarks, or get his attention by making smart comments about this or that. Now they could see why Clara was constantly tiptoeing her way around him. Whenever they made the effort to engage him in conversation even of the highest kind—discussing a novel, a movie or an exhibition they had particularly loved—Gabriel would listen to them quietly and then articulate in one sharp argument why he totally disagreed with them. They found themselves exhausted and disconcerted, as if all their efforts to make him feel welcome had only succeeded in making them look frivolous and incompetent.
Clara had brought along her watercolors and a special Japanese paper with the intention of painting, but she hadn’t yet opened the bag where she kept them. She couldn’t concentrate, or maybe she wasn’t particularly inspired. Her head seemed to be always wandering elsewhere, mostly toward Gabriel, who could lie for hours in the hammock engrossed in a book, without paying much attention to what happened around him. She didn’t exactly feel ignored, but she definitely felt there was a difference in the way they were aware of each other’s presence in the room. She kept gauging every imperceptible reaction he had to her, every expression or shift in his mood. Each night, after they had sex, Clara felt they had made some progress, in that they had become a tiny bit closer than when they had arrived. But the minute they put their clothes back on, Gabriel seemed to retreat into himself again. What she really longed for was emotional intimacy, and that seemed so much more complicated to achieve than an orgasm.