Lord Henry Whitridge was used to being master of his own world. He wielded effortless command over any milieu in which he found himself, whether it was among his family, his Cambridge classmates, or the tenants of the estate he had inherited from his father. He possessed all the traits a gentleman ought to have--beauty, strength, wit, wealth--all in perfect proportion. His beauty was not so dazzling as to outshine his intelligence. His intelligence, in turn, was never so virtuosic that it distracted from the sturdy symmetry of his figure or the healthy vigor of his athleticism. And, of course, every body can be made more beautiful, and every mind can be made to appear sharper, if one possesses a large fortune and a title. The four letters that preceded Lord Whitridge's name were as beautiful as any chiseled muscle, as impressive as any feat of strength. The sum of his bank account made any statement he made the pinnacle of wit.
Could one blame the young Henry if he thought much of himself? His manner was always dominant, but never domineering. He ruled his cohort at King's College with the easygoing entitlement of one whose supremacy had never been questioned. He was captain of the cricket team and received frequent invitations to exclusive dinners and societies. He was a man with whom one wanted to be acquainted, an advantageous connection for all those lucky enough to associate with him. All the world seemed to be made for Henry's enjoyment, and he molded the wills of those around him like soft dough in his sturdy hands.
That is, until Enzo entered his cohort.
Vincenzo Negri transferred to Cambridge in Henry's second year. The drama of his backstory conferred on him an automatic aura of mystery. He had originally been a student at the University of Bologna, but he had fled Italy after Mussolini came to power. Rumor was he had only narrowly escaped imprisonment for his political opposition by stowing away on a fishing boat headed for Albania. Enzo himself neither confirmed nor denied the rumor.
Enzo was, in many ways, a perfect foil to Henry, in body and in spirit. In contrast to the perfect symmetry of Henry's figure, Enzo's body was disproportionate. He was too thin. His nose and cheekbones were too pronounced. The matte of black hair on his head stood out in every direction. Whereas Henry projected a sturdy English stoicism, Enzo seemed to feel everything too deeply. He argued with his classmates and spoke back to professors passionately and boldly. He was an outspoken communist, and the vehemence with which he opposed the status quo attracted the attention of many. If the world was made for men like Henry to mold, Enzo seemed determined to oppose the mold, to rub against it, to unsettle its boundaries.
Henry introduced himself to Enzo as soon as he arrived, with the intention of impressing upon this newcomer that he was a power to contend with. He knocked on Enzo's door and offered him a gift: an expensive tie pin with the name of the college inscribed on it. "I brought you a welcome gift," he explained when Enzo opened the door.
Enzo took the box, opened it, and ran his finger over the small gold pin. "This looks expensive," he commented. Henry noticed a musical lilt in his Italian accent. His expression conveyed neither approval nor disapproval.
Henry took the opportunity to make sure Enzo understood his position. "Lord Henry Whitridge," he said pointedly.
Instead of being impressed, however, Enzo simply raised one eyebrow. "Tell me," he responded coldly, "how does it feel to be part of a dying caste of aristocrats?"
Henry found himself unable to think of a satisfactory response. No one had ever spoken this bluntly to him before or questioned the unequivocal virtue of his nobility. He gaped at Enzo, who stared back at him with cool intensity. Finally, to break the silence, he laughed uncomfortably as if it were a joke.
"I don't need this," Enzo said, handing the box back to Henry. Before Henry could protest, he shut the door in his face.
It was the first crack in the foundation of Henry's primacy.
There would be many more little transgressions to follow. Indeed, Enzo seemed to take active pleasure in antagonizing Henry and disrupting his comfortable orbit of acquaintances. When Henry organized a study group to discuss classical philosophy, Enzo showed up with a copy of Marx's Capital. When Henry played first batsman in the cricket finals, Enzo was the only man from King's College who did not show up to watch. Slowly, Enzo gathered a group of followers, fellow malcontents who questioned the institution of the college and, by extension, the power of Henry's wealth and status. It bothered Henry to no end, angered him, itched at him; with every small act of defiance, a chip on his pedestal fell to the floor.
***
Henry was not always the pinnacle of gentlemanly perfection that he projected to the world. He allowed himself precisely one hour every week when he let his composure slip.
Henry frequented a small, clandestine nightclub in town every Thursday. It was a seedy place, located in a part of town that none of the Cambridge men visited unless they were after one thing: boys. It was Henry's only vice, his weakness for men's bodies, and although he knew it was an egregious one, he was also an expert at containing it. He made his sojourns there as inconspicuous as possible, departing late at night and taking a cab with a different driver every time. He had a boy he favored at this particular club, a brawny, flaxen-haired man named Clive. Clive was beautiful, with a bodacious, muscular body, but best of all he was discreet. He never spoke to Henry unless necessary; he performed the transaction with prudent indifference.
On the occasions Henry visited, he had his routine down like clockwork: he would enter the nightclub, head straight for the back corner where Clive was usually to be found, purchase a quick, efficient burst of release, and be on his way. He spoke to as few people as possible, then returned to his life at Cambridge as if the transgression had never happened. Quick and contained, that was how Henry liked to keep his habits--contained enough that he never had to think about them too deeply or experience their consequences.
Halfway into the Michaelmas term, Henry's routine was interrupted. On this particular evening, he ducked his head into the basement of the nightclub and began to head in the direction of his usual corner. Before he could reach it, he crossed paths with a man who made him stop in his tracks. He wore different clothing than he did at the college, more casual and colorful, but his pronounced features and the intensity behind his eyes were unmistakable: it was Enzo.
Henry stared at Enzo; Enzo stared at Henry. Neither said a word. In Enzo's eyes, Henry saw a flicker of acknowledgment. It was not an expression of surprise, nor approval, nor derision, but rather simply an acknowledgment of sameness. Henry gave a curt nod. Enzo nodded back. Then, just like that, the moment of understanding passed. Henry turned away and continued on his route wordlessly, and Enzo was lost in the crowd--lost, but certainly not forgotten. His presence weighed on Henry's mind throughout the evening, a convergence of worlds that unsettled the separation between his real life at school and the brief escape that these weekly sojourns provided.
Why was this man everywhere Henry went? It was bad enough that he disrupted the order of Henry's cohort at university, but to follow him here, to the secret space he went to escape from himself, was too much. From that night on, every time Henry saw Enzo, whether it was in class, in chapel, or walking through the cloisters of the college, he knew that Enzo knew his secret.
***
It was not until the beginning of the Lenten term that Henry decided that something must be done about his unruly new classmate.
They were sitting in their history tutorial, discussing the British Empire with an eminent scholar of modern history, Dr. John Morley. Henry sat on one side of the room, flanked by his group of friends, and Enzo sat on the opposite side, accompanied by his own group.
