Time Mar

The sun was still low in the eastern sky when I stole in the gate from the parking apron into the back garden. I stealthily—and painfully—mounted the outside stairs to the garage flat, hoping that Ergon hadn't come back in the night after I'd left him in my bed. If he had, he wasn't here now.

I was in the kitchen, applying cold compresses to my shoulders, thighs, and buttocks when I heard sounds coming up from the alley below my window. I went over to the window. I'd spent much time here, watching the alley, trying to see whatever I could. And fortuitously now I saw what I'd been looking for all along.

A small, nondescript trade van had been backed into the alley. The van sat there for several minutes until a man showed up at the head of the alley and looked both ways before coming into the alley, passing the van, and knocking on the door of Fuad Fikret's villa. It was the Yemeni, Murad. The Yemeni and Fikret spoke for a few minutes at the door and then Ahmed came out of the house and started helping the driver of the van, who was wearing a hoodie, with the hood pulled over his head, pull bulk-wrapped packages out of the back of the van and carry them into the house. When they were done transporting whatever it was in that direction, heavier wooden boxes came out of the villa, each one carried by Ahmed on one end and the driver on the other—and not too easily moved—and placed in the back of the van. Fikret, Ahmed, and the Yemeni watched the van drive out. Ahmed went into the villa and Fikret and the Yemeni spoke for a moment more.

I didn't know when, if ever there would be another opportunity. I could never have hoped to have this one. I quickly opened a drawer in the kitchen and sifted around until I'd found a sharp-bladed, sheathed knife that was small enough to put in the pocket of the cargo shorts hanging over the back of a chair in the bedroom. I dared not go for the shorts, though, without knowing what the Yemeni was going to do.

When I saw him walking back to the mouth of the alley and Fikret pulling back into the villa and shutting the door, I raced into the other room, pulled on the shorts, pushed the sheathed knife down into the lower pocket on the right, and moved down the stairs as quickly and quietly as I could.

The Yemeni was still in sight when I got to the mouth of the alley. He was across the street and entering the grounds of the Anglican church, quite evidently intending to take the shortcut through the church graveyard and in the shadows of the castle wall en route to the harbor below.

I had been trained to move fast and quietly and I put this training into full use as I crossed the street and entered the church grounds. Moving faster than the Yemeni was.

* * * *

After a brief visit to the garage flat kitchen, I put on a smile and went over to the house. I knew I was much later than I'd told Ergon I'd show up. As I walked across the gallery porch, I looked through the French doors and saw Jamil and Sami working in the morning room, finishing up the painting there. They were being unusually quiet this morning, and when they looked up at me, their faces showed apprehension rather than the usual sunny welcome. They both turned back to facing the wall they were painting with only the slightest polite smile.

Ergon was in the living room. He wasn't sporting a sunny smile either when I walked in there.

"You said you wanted to see the early morning light coming in from the garden doors before deciding the color to paint this room," he said, as I entered. "It's no longer early morning." His voice was hard, resentful. This wasn't at all like he'd been last night when he was holding and rocking me. I actually preferred this. His gentleness and evident affection last night scared the hell out of me. I'd never intended for it to be that way.

"A light yellow will do, I think," I responded, ignoring his mood. I wouldn't bring it up unless he did. He didn't own me; I made my own choices. I'd never asked—or meant for—him to care. "Almost white, only showing yellow when the sun shines in in the morning. I already was pretty sure of the color." I actually didn't give a crap what color the room was painted. I wouldn't be here to enjoy the house. Whoever bought it could change the colors as they wished. I had never intended being around to live here.

"So, I've said a color. Are we going to inaugurate this room now?" I had said it to cut the iciness in the room. It failed miserably.

"No, I don't think so," he answered, "unless you direct me to. I work for you and will do what you tell me I have to do." Didn't sound too willing, but he did look at me then. I had turned from him and walked over to the fireplace. "You have welts on your back and legs." I could almost hear the gasp he gave at the revelation. "You didn't have those when you came back last night. Have you been there again today—next door?"

"Not today. Later last night." I didn't feel the need to protect him from anything. It was time to end this anyway. I was getting close to the end.

"Christ, the man is going to kill you. Don't you understand that?" His words were angry. He cared. I had to steel myself from this.

"What if he does? What a way to flame out. And it's my choice."

"Did you come here—to Girne—to die?"

"I came here to seek atonement and to lessen the guilt. To be punished for my guilt, yes. If that requires my life—"

"I can't stand by and watch you destroy yourself this way. You are going out on his boat with him too, aren't you?"

I just shrugged and turned my face to the fireplace. I couldn't look at him. It was too hard. I cared too, and that threatened to tear me apart. "If you want to go—you and Jamil and Sami—that would be fine with me. I will pay you two week's severance. I could pay you now—as soon as I've been to the bank—or bring it up to the Tree of Idleness, if you prefer. Which would you—?" But I turned then to find that I was talking to an empty room. I went out into and walked along the gallery porch to where I could look into the morning room. They were gone. All three of them.

"Shit," I said. But it wasn't an I've-got-to-find-them-and-bring-them back shit. It was a general shit about how this had ended. I'd never planned to care—about any of them. It hadn't been something I could afford. That I found I did care was what was shit.

I slowly walked across the garden and mounted the steps to the garage flat. I moved to the balcony from where I could look over the wall and into Fuad Fikrit's orchard garden. Ahmed, in just shorts was sprawled out on a chaise lounge between two fig trees.

"Time to drive a nail in this coffin," I muttered to myself.

There was a garden gate leading to a narrow pathway between the entry porch to Fikrit's villa and the wall at the back of my lot. I pushed open the gate, which screeched in protest, and walked back to the garden. Ahmed watched me approach, but he didn't move from his sprawled position, slid down on the chase, his legs extended off to either side, and his big feet flat on the ground.

I knelt down at the end of the chaise lounge, bent over his thighs, unzipped his shorts and pulled them off his legs, and took his long cock in my mouth. I gave him great head—or so his groans were telling me.

I was quite aware that at the screeching of the garden gate, Fuad came out onto a balcony on the bedroom level and watched me kneel below Ahmed and start giving him head. Fuad had a robe on, but it was open, showing that he was naked underneath. He was smoking a cigarette with one hand and hoisting a snifter of brandy with the other.

I was on Ahmed's lap, riding his cock, facing him, when Fuad came down from the balcony, sans cigarette and glass. He crouched behind me, his hands gliding across my body. I moaned for him and turned my face to his for a kiss. He tasted of both the smoke and the brandy.

"You too, please," I murmured when we'd come out of the kiss. He knew I could take a double. He had both a dildo and his own cock inside me the previous night. And he didn't require more of an invitation. He coaxed me to lean forward, almost touching Ahmed's massive, heaving chest with mine, and to roll my buttocks up. He fingered my hole and the root of Ahmed's cock for a moment or two and, then I was panting heavily and giving little yip yip sounds as he worked his cock, with that thick PA ring, inside my channel underneath Ahmed's shaft.

The Egyptian lay there very still, not moving his cock, which, though, was buried to the hilt inside me, as Fikrit palmed my pecs with his hands and started to pound, pound, pound my ass. Faster and faster, causing me to writhe and bounce up and down on the cocks. With a grunt, Ahmed couldn't hold off any longer either and he was thrusting up into me too—both on the beat of Fikrit's plowing and off the beat. They came up inside me almost simultaneously. I had already jacked off on the Egyptian's chest.

We held there, time and action suspended other than heavy breathing in trio.

"You take it well," Fikrit whispered in my ear. It sounded like a compliment, but I sensed a tone of "What do I have to do to break you?" in his voice. This was where I wanted him to be. I wanted him to do what it took to break me. Ergon had warned me—twice—that going out on his yacht with him would be over the edge. That's where I needed to take Fikrit.

"It was like riding the waves," I murmured. "Like we were on your boat and I was riding your cock in the waves of a storm."

"Do you want to go out on my yacht with me?" I could almost feel him wetting his lips, anticipating what he'd do to me out in international waters where I would be fully his captive, entirely at his mercy. I knew I had challenged him, that he considered me a mission now—a mission to break me completely.

"Yes, I'd like that. Do you have some toys on your boat you don't have here?"

"You'd better believe it," he growled. "Saturday. Saturday I'll take you to sea."

Today was Thursday. The end was near. But there wasn't much time.

We were rocking together, still fully linked, and I could feel the renewed interest in both of them. "Double me again, can you? Now. But harder. Punish me."

They complied.

That evening I dressed in a tight T-shirt and long trousers and walked down the hill to the Harbor Club. The bar was on the second floor, overlooking the harbor through a large window looking out onto a balcony with tables. The tables were all occupied with Westerners, eating their meals earlier than the normal Cypriot dinner hour.

I sat at the bar chatting up a young American woman, who obviously was bored and cruising. I couldn't give her satisfaction on the cruising, but I could keep her from being bored for a bit of time before an unattached man to her liking showed up. She had seen a young man slip me his phone number and blow me a kiss as she was approaching the bar. She seemed comfortable that I was a safe interlude to serious shopping.

"You sound like an American," I said.

"Yes. American embassy," Cynthia answered. "And you? I can't quite place the accent."

"Canadian. I'm into coal in Canada. But escaping the dust."

"In Cyprus long? Have you found a good beach on the Turkish side?"

"Not long," I said. "I haven't found a beach I like, but there's a pool bar, called Rosie's on the Rocks, west from here along the coast that I like a lot. You pay by the day and there's a great pool right on the rocks over the water. You can swim in the sea there too, if you like. And they have a bar and a covered dining area. You can do the whole day there without leaving. And it's only used by the diplomatic corps, UN soldiers, and British expatriates."

"Sound luscious. I'll have to try it."

"Did I mention that UN soldiers like to go there?" I gave her a wink. "But beware of the twilight hours on a Friday night, unless you are looking for serious action." And that was no less than the truth. Peter and I had liked nothing more than to pick up a hunky UN soldier at Rosie's after 5:00 p.m. to work me over and then to share me with Peter before Peter moved on to one or more of his pain-pleasure specialties.

"Then I'll have to be sure to try it out—maybe earlier in the day, though. Going there anytime soon?"

"Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact. And Saturday a friend is taking me out on a yacht. That long, sleek one down there." I pointed down to Fuad Fikrit's yacht bobbing slowly up and down off Effendi's restaurant. "It's called the

Chankaya

."

"It's stunning. But it probably will be scorching out in the water in the afternoon."

"We're going in the morning. I'm only planning up to Saturday, though. I'm making no plans after that for my life."

"Ain't that the Cypriot way?" she said. "Live only for tomorrow or the next day." We both laughed. Cynthia's laugh was a pleasant tingly one, and it drew the attention of a young, good-looking man, who saddled up to the bar on the other side of her. She turned her attention to the newcomer, younger and, one could hope, far straighter than I was, and I slipped off my barstool and faded into the shadows.

I walked back to the compound, where I walked through the rooms of my house that was under renovation, imagining how much I would enjoy it here if I had really intended to stay here. Who knew what Saturday would bring, though? Maybe I would survive and this guilt inside me for Peter's death would be punished out of me enough for me to go on. Who knew? I wouldn't be selling the place in the next day, of course. Maybe if I was still alive after the weekend, I'd keep it as an option to come back to someday in the future.

But it was so quiet in the house. I had realized how accustomed and in tune I'd become to the hammering and bantering of the three young men. How I would like for Ergon to be in the garage flat when I went up there—waiting for me in my bed. Fucking me and then holding me through the night as he had done for such a brief time last night.

Yes, I hadn't counted on caring for those three young men.

I went up to the flat, but of course Ergon wasn't there. I packed my suitcase, and quietly, almost surreptitiously, left the house by the front door—not by the alley, where I might be seen by or encounter either Fuad or Ahmed. Staying in the shadows, I circled around the harbor on the street above the harbor and came by the water near the Dome Hotel, where I checked in for two nights. I couldn't face staying in the silent house I owned for the next two nights. Nor did I want Fuad Fikrit to find me and tempt me before our yachting cruise.

* * * *

The next morning, after an early breakfast at the hotel, I threw a Speedo, towel, and flip-flops in my carryon bag and walked up the hill, above the harbor, to my house, entering by the front door again. I couldn't avoid going into the alley, as the funky old Morris Minor convertible I'd rented was in the garage under the flat. I needed a car to get to Rosie's.

As I drove out of Kyrenia, west on the coastal road, I saw that I was being tailed by a black Mercedes sedan. I hadn't left the house unseen. There wasn't anything I could do about that. If Fikrit wanted to tail me to make sure I wasn't doing anything funny before Saturday, I'd have to adjust to that. I had maneuvered him into salivating a Saturday at sea with me on purpose.

I was early at Rosie's, but the sun was up, as was the heat, and the water looked inviting. I rented a small room off on the opposite side of the covered restaurant terrace for the day and changed into my Speedo in there. Rosie's had been here for decades, as had Rosie herself, a statuesque redhead given to muumuus, a sunny disposition, Margaritas, and a raucous laugh. It had been a favorite watering and cruising hole for Peter and me—especially when cruising for strapping Scandinavian UN soldiers to make up a threesome. Rosie's wasn't just a pool bar on the rocks over the Mediterranean. It also was a brothel. You could rent rooms on the terrace level by the kitchen and below Rosie's flat and either bring your own or rent one of the men or women Rosie housed on the level above her flat.

If you were there at 5:00 in the evening on Fridays, you could get your action right there at the pool.

I found a chaise lounge in a long line of empty lounges, placed a book on the cushion I'd rented—a classic homosexual novel, John Richy's City of the Night, and dove into the pool. People started to dribble in as I swam laps, trying to work out the tension in my body. A young, well-built man and his honey-blonde wife and two blonde daughters entered the pool area and took up residence on the chaise lounges immediately adjacent to the one I'd staked out.

When I rose up out of the pool and came over to my chaise and stood there, drying off with the beach towel I brought, the blonde wife and two blonde daughters went into the pool. This left the husband laid out on the chaise next to mine. He was wearing sunglasses and boxer swim trunks and reading a Greek-side English-language newspaper, the

Cyprus Mail

. He too was blond and of all-American jock physique. Muscled up, but only enough to look manly and capable, not a muscle freak.

I went down on my lounge bed, picked up the Richy book, and started to read. Ahmed had come into the pool area while I changed in the room I'd rented. He was laying on a lounge bed across the pool from me, stripped down to his shorts. He obviously hadn't brought swimming trunks. He'd had no idea where I was going this morning.

The young athletic guy and I lay side by side for a while. I ordered a drink from a passing waiter, one who looked so effeminate that I figured he also was part of the brothel.

"You speak English."

"Excuse me?" I said, turning my head to the man next to me. "Oh, yes, I'm Canadian," I continued. "I'm Clifford Clarke." We both reached across the divide for a short handshake.

"I'm Ted Severn," he said. "From the American embassy. Cultural affairs. You visiting Cyprus?"

"I'm from Sudbury," I answered. "Sudbury, Ontario. Coal. The air there has become dreadful. Much of that my fault, I'm afraid. I own a few coal mines. I was told to get out of the pollution, so I'm restoring an old Turkish house in Kyrenia. Uh, Girne, I suppose I'm supposed to call it."

He'd spoken to me without looking at me, but I could tell that he'd seen the book I was reading. He reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story. Another classic gay novel. He lowered his sunglasses and gave me a meaningful look before he opened the book.

The ladies reappeared, the daughters saying they were hungry and, "Could we eat now, please?"

Laughing, Ted rose from his chaise lounge and agreed to the short trip over to the covered dining terrace.

"Would you care to join us?" he asked me after introducing me to his wife and daughters.

"Sure, why not?" I looked over at Ahmed. He was still there, and he was watching me like a hawk. He changed lounge beds as I entered the dining terrace with the chattering blonde American family. He moved to one from where he could observe the full length of the dining terrace.

"I want to go back to the pool," one of the daughters declared after she'd gobbled down her lunch.

"Me too," chimed in the other.

"You can't go in the pool until your lunch has had some time to digest," the blonde wife said. "And, besides, your father hasn't finished his lunch yet."

"Please, Mother. Pretty please. Please, please, please." The girls made an insistent chorus out of the demand.

"Oh, go ahead and take the girls back, Ann," Ted said. "Clifford hasn't finished either. The girls can go in the wading pool." The wading pool was around the corner from the dining terrace, not in a line of sight of the terrace.

When they had gone, Ted gave me a meaningful look.

"I have a room rented right over there," I said.