by Kenovay
There's Diane - those breasts are enough to make anyone forget. Although I'm not enough of a sleaze to flirt in any way, since she's Toula's cousin, Mandy, a colleague of mine, teaches History - beautiful, blonde�but not Toula. I've never flirted with her either. Jane - she's an old friend - well, flirting with her would be verging on incest, since she's married to my own cousin down in Wisconsin, but she's very beautiful as well. And Natasha, Irene and Ella. All equally beautiful, intelligent and nice. And, at the end of my select list of seven people, there's, well, there's Nick. Nick Portokalos.
I forgot to mention that I'm, well, I'm not gay, but I wouldn't say entirely straight, didn't I? So it's not like the Y chromosome has completely knocked me for a loop, stuck up its little head and said 'Hey. Here comes your midlife crisis.' But I am just a little off-balance. I mean, one, I'm married to Nick's sister and I love her very much. This is, of course, the most important factor, and in fact, two hardly rates a mention, but, you know� Well, Nick's really not the type of guy I've gone for before, in my brief forays into alternative lifestyles. I don't want to sound patronising, and I'm only ten years older than him, but God, he's young. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and still clinging onto a conviction that no one's going to steal his nut-hoard.
And he's not really stunningly handsome, which is usually a requirement for tempting me to take a walk on the wild side. I'm not an incredible prize myself, but I'm good-looking enough, and the hair makes me stand out. Nick's ordinary, something vaguely reminiscent of a used car salesman in his face, fairly short. It's the eyes that do me in, I decided a week ago, the big, Greek eyes, so like Toula's in shape and size and colour, but with a different spark. And when you see him drawing or painting or sculpting, well. He's just cute. He normally has paint or charcoal or something on his face, and his tongue sticks out, not just the tip of his tongue but a lot of it, and his eyes are harder, sharper, so focused on the paper or the clay that I just know that he hasn't registered my presence. If I say 'Kalimera', one callused hand will flutter slightly, but I could be the Tooth Fairy for all he cares.
I'm an only child, you know? Whatever the parents are like, all only children will be a little bit selfish, from having all that attention lavished on them. My only rivals for anyone's love were my cousins, and they were in Wisconsin. And now I have to fight with a piece of paper for Nick's notice. I think that's what made me take a second look. Him and Angelo, they're funny, even when I'm the butt of the joke. And so, for a while, I was the new one, the one who would fall for everything Nick said, backed up by Angelo. How was I to know what the Greek lines they fed me meant? I think their proudest moment was threatening to kill me the first time I met them, and keeping unnervingly straight faces whilst doing so.
So, every time I visit, their faces light up. "Hey, Ian!" Even if it's just Nick, unsupported by Angelo, I can count on attention. And then, I'm not new. I've learnt Greek, so they can't get me to announce weird physical deformities in front of the whole family, and I know them too well to fall for the other tricks. It's not that they don't greet me any more, but I'm no longer the focus of considerable mental energy. But, you know, that's all right. I still get a wave, and jokes, and a chaotic conversation about fast cars. I'm close to both of them, and these two young men are the hope and pride of the Portokaloses. So, I'm special. Until the day I visit and Nick doesn't notice.
Angelo jumps up from the sofa, and asks me whether I saw Saving Private Ryan last night, and I say yes, and I wait for Nick to remark. There's no remark, so I turn, and see him at the table, red on his nose, tongue between his teeth. He's painting a revolting leg of meat, one of those big, fleshy things that Maria sometimes keeps in the kitchen. Angelo shrugs. "An artist," he explains, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "Uncle Gus says that he is continuing his heritage." Nick greets me later, of course, and I see the painting, vivid and grotesque, an ugly subject in unforgiving light. But it's never the same again. Nick's talent is my rival.
Realising I'm in a fight that I can't win over him, I reassess. And what do you know? He introduces spontaneous amnesia; a problem I'd already fought with Diane, Irene, Jane and Mandy.
That was a year ago. It's not like some grande passion, uncontrollable and volatile. In fact, it's reassuringly steady. I know that if he laughs or talks too close to my ear, I'll get goosebumps, that every time his family ignores his talent I'll feel protective, and that if he touches me there'll be a little jab from the pit of my stomach. It's a crush, that's the only word for it, a bit more intense than aesthetic appreciation, which is what I hold for every woman on my list, and a lot less intense than love, which is what I feel for Toula, dammit!
I look away from the dancers and fetch myself some more ouzo. "Enjoying yourself, Eeee-awn?" Maria smiles at me. The older, more Greek Portokaloses pronounce my name as a donkey's bray.
"Of course. How are you?"
"Oh, so-so. I wanted to ask you a favour, for my little Nicky." I raise my eyebrows and look welcoming. "It's a big favour," she warns me. "I would ask Philip, but, you know, he has no car! So I think, I will ask Taki. He cannot leave the dry cleaners! So I think, before I ask anyone else, I will ask Ian, because I know that he is friendly with my Nick. Ian, Nick's art teacher, she has said that they must visit an art exhibition in Vason, but I do not want Nicky to be away without an adult there to look after him, so I am asking you, Ian, if you will take him?" After taking some art courses, Nick had confronted his parents with Toula's support and browbeaten them into agreeing he should study art at the local university.
"Mum!" Nick must have been standing quite close, in the door of the kitchen, to have heard us. "I'm not a baby. The coach will take us, we'll look around, we'll come back. It's all supervised, and I'll only be away for a night."
"But Nicky, it's your first time away from the family." Auntie Voula has joined in. Nick can't win.
"But you can't ask Ian!" I'm stung by this protest. Does he not want me to take him?
"I'd be happy to take him," I say. It's a rash thing to do without consulting Toula, or talking to Nick.
"Good, good." Maria is satisfied. "Nicky, you tell him where it is and when to meet, yes?" She pulls him down and kisses his cheeks. "My good boy." And Voula and Maria wander off, leaving me facing Nick. A humiliated, blushing Nick, who isn't meeting my eyes.
"They shouldn't have forced you into it like that," he says. "I don't need a chaperon, and you've got a hundred better things to do. Besides, it's all organised by the university."
"I don't mind. You should be pleased that your family worries so much. Anyway, I know and you know that you don't need supervision, that we're just doing this to appease your female relatives."
"Yeah." He looks a bit happier. "Do you know where Vason is?"
"Matter of fact, I do. My granddad was always quite interested in railways, and he took me to visit Vason once. Not a very impressive town."
He shrugs. "They've built a new art gallery. We're s'posed to spend a day in the gallery and go home the next morning."
"When is it?"
"Saturday to Sunday." Today was Thursday.
"So I'll see you here at - what time do you have to be there?"
"Eleven."
"Shall we say eight o'clock, just to be safe?"
"Sure. Eight o'clock on Saturday. Thank you, Ian."
"No problem. A weekend away is always nice."
That night I broach the trip to Toula, and she is enthusiastic about the whole idea. "I'm so glad you'll be going with Nick," she says. "He won't get into trouble with you there."
Does his whole family think Nick's a child? I'm beginning to feel like a paedophile, with my crush on the baby of the family. "He's a nice guy," I say, trying to emphasise my feelings of equality with Nick.
"He's a lovely boy," she says. "And he's a brilliant artist. I'm glad he's studying it." We are silent for a while. I have my arm curved around Toula's waist, and she lies facing away from me. I love her. "It's a shame he's still not married," she says suddenly.
"Toula!" Part of the sharpness of my voice comes from being reminded that, of course, Nick will marry some nice Greek girl and live happily ever after. "I thought you were all for not pressuring people into marriage."
"What?" She defends herself. "I'd like some nieces and nephews, and a sister-in-law."
"Maybe Nick doesn't want to marry! Maybe he's taken a vow of celibacy! You're assuming he has the same values as you. I mean, maybe he's...maybe he's gay!"
"What! My brother's not gay! There's nothing wrong with my family!"
"Being gay isn't having something wrong with -" I begin, but she interrupts.
"I don't want to talk about it," she says. "Live and let live, I say, but I don't want my nose rubbed in it." Her body has gone slightly tense at the unpleasantness.
"Alright. Good night."
"Good night." We sleep.
***
When Saturday comes round I say goodbye to Toula and knock on Theo and Maria's door. Maria answers. "Ian! Come in! Have you had breakfast?"
"Yes, thank you, Maria." If I say no, she'll stick a great plateful of meat in front of me. I've never identified what sort, but she and Voula have still not quite grasped vegetarianism.
"Good, good. Nicky is all ready. His teacher is expecting him there at eleven, and then he will be in the gallery, so you will be free."
"Yes. I'm going to find a hotel and then look around."
"Good. Here's money fo...�" She flutters her hands, "...the hotel and things." Before I have a chance to politely refuse she turns and shouts. "Nicky!" There is a faint answering shout and the clatter of feet on the stairs. Nick comes into view, carrying two bags. It's a humid morning, and he's wearing a tight T-shirt with cut-off arms and old jeans that look as though he's been dribbled into them, inch by precarious inch. I never noticed before quite how beautifully muscled his upper arms are, or how long and slim his legs are. I'm going to be sitting in close quarters with this for two hours?
"Hey," he says casually to me, but there's an odd, uncertain look in his eyes. Maybe he's still a bit embarrassed.
"Hey." I smile at him reassuringly. The eyes light up and he grins.
When we're both settled in the car he stretches towards the CD player, looking at me for permission. I nod. "There're some CDs in the glove compartment."
"It's alright. Brought my own." He reaches into the rucksack at his feet and brings out a lurid pink and yellow CD.
"What's that?"
"Never mind the bollocks, here's the Sex Pistols," he mutters, not looking towards me.
"The Sex Pistols?"
"Yeah. What's wrong with that?"
"Not what I expected a - you to like."
"What were you going to say? A good Greek boy? Well, I'm not, so piss off." He pokes the CD into the player and lounges back as heavy clapping begins. I don' wanna holiday in the sun! barks a British voice. With the soundscape of the irate music, Nick's sprawling figure looks sulky and dangerous. I stay silent. "I'm sick of it, you know?" he says suddenly after a while. "I like the Sex Pistols, I like drawing, I'm Greek, I'm male, I'm brown-haired. They all seem mutually exclusive." I decide that he's talking about his family, and settle back for a rant of the kind Toula delivers at sporadic intervals when her family has been stifling her.
"Be honest, Ian. You didn't expect the Sex Pistols because I'm good and Greek and artistic. You probably expected classical music or something, not this." He gestures in the general direction of the player, where the angry singer is now telling us that he has no feelings for anyone except himself, his beautiful self.
When did this turn into an assault on me? It's a little surprising, but I answer openly enough. "No, you're right. But it was mainly because you're artistic, not because you're Greek. I don't define you by your Greekness." That should head him off at the pass.
"No, you define me by what I like doing. And my maleness. And my hair colour. It's pissing me off."
This stings a little. "So you're asking me to not be slightly surprised when you show a preference for a band that's before your time, British, ugly, rude, and loud? I'm human."
He looks out of the window. "I just don't want to be limited to a set of attributes." His voice is quieter.
I nod. "It's life."
"Yeah. Sucks."
***
I knew we couldn't complete this trip in such close quarters with him in those clothes without something happening. As I reach out to change gear, he moves. My hand goes a little wide of the gear stick and lands on his thigh, almost unprotected by the denim second skin. I'm about to pass it off with convincing casualness, as though my insides hadn't jolted a little, when he shivers and pulls his leg back sharply, gazing at me wide-eyed. "Sorry," I mutter, grabbing the gear stick. We're so pretty, oh so pretty... we're vacant! agree the Sex Pistols.
"It's alright," he lies.
"Hazard of driving stick." I offer.
"Yeah." He accepts.
Silence descends again, but I can still feel his leg under my palm in every detail. "So," I say finally. "Why are you going to this gallery?"
"It has an exhibition of Impressionism on. They've borrowed paintings from everywhere, from the Mus�e d'Orsay and the Phillips Collection and the Hermitage and lots of other places. It's an incredible achievement for a new gallery, to have collected so many in one place, but they have powerful support, apparently. It's supposedly the fullest collection of Impressionist paintings ever."
"I think I'll come in as well," I say. It sounds like rather a special exhibition, and I've always liked Impressionist paintings. "I'll leave you there, find a hotel, and then come back."
He nods. My palm still feels as though it's touching a phantom leg, even though it's gripping the steering wheel. "That'd be great. You won't be able to join our tour though."
"No, I'll just look around and wait until you're ready. I like Impressionism." Our speech is still a little stilted, less animated than it was before the Happening, which has achieved its own capital letter in my mind. I'm annoyed with myself. Hand on leg is hardly a serious incident. It's happened with men and women before. I love Toula! Remember Toula, your beautiful wife?
I calm myself by remembering that the first time I touched Toula I had an even stronger reaction. Nick is still just a crush. My reaction is probably magnified by his reaction, which was less casual than I expected. It spoke of inexperience and what I interpreted as discomfort. A good thing, too. If that little shiver had been communicating something else, I might now be in difficulties. What has saved me from the dire effects of my amnesia so far has been the fact that none of the people on my list reciprocate my attraction, as far as I know, and even so, none of them are available. Knowing that Nick was available and reciprocal would probably be a little dangerous.
***
We arrive a little late, but no one makes a fuss. Nick smiles at me, says he'll see me later, and joins his friends. A lecturer draws me aside. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Miller. I'm Dr Kensington." We shake hands. Dr Kensington is tall and brown, with wide dark eyes. "I must confess, Mr Miller, I'm a little confused about your presence. Excuse my rudeness, but you can't be older than I am, yet Nick's mother informed me you were looking after him. Surely a university student can look after himself." Her eyes are slightly suspicious and I decide I like her. Straight to the point, no hesitance.
"Nick's the baby of the family," I said. "I'm married to his older sister, and his mother and aunt asked me to drive him up and look after him. It's his first trip away from home." I don't go into more detail, about how Nick's not really an adult until he's married, and how no flaky artists are capable of looking after him.
The lecturer nods, still not looking enlightened. "It's very odd," she said. "But I suppose, his family's Greek, aren't they?"
"Yeah."
"Well, they have different ideas about responsibility, don't they?"
"Yeah." And for an instant, it's us-and-them, and the teacher and I exchange smiles of perfect American understanding.
"But it'll certainly be very boring for you." The lecturer sounds slightly concerned. "Nick will be in the exhibition all day."
"It's fine. I'm going to book a hotel, and then I'm going to come and see the exhibition."
"A hotel? That'll be expensive. We have accommodations booked for Nick, if that would be more convenient, and I'm sure they could find a space for you. It's all automatic, you know. Twenty students on the trip, so twenty places booked."
I shake my head at the offer. "Parents again. They've given me money, and I don't want to offend my mother-in-law." I don't want to sleep in some youth hostel, with cheap, thin beds and a make-your-own-breakfast deal.
"Okay," the lecturer says. "All a bit irregular, but we're flexible." I smile at her. "So I'll hand Nick over to you at the end of the tour."
"Fine, I'll be at the gallery entrance at...?"
"Five o'clock. It was nice to meet you, Mr Miller."
"You too, Dr Kensington." I leave, catching Nick's eye and grimacing at him. He grins, and turns away to enter the gallery.
I follow the concise directions of a woman on the street corner and arrive outside the Kathoid. The Mediterranean girl at the desk smiles at me as I come in.
"Can I help you?" She has a slight Greek accent.
"I'd like to book two rooms for one night, if possible. Do you serve meals?"
"Supper and breakfast, but no lunch. Greek cooking." Nick's going to feel at home.
"Do you cater for vegetarians?"
She giggles. "A little bit. The chef has only just moved from Brundisi, and is having trouble getting his head round the idea. Greeks eat a lot of meat."
"So I discovered," I say, smiling. "I'm married to one."
"Cool." She's grinning. "We have Greek dancing after dinner. My parents own this place. Anyway - vegetarian. Along the lines of salad and things like that. Cereal for breakfast."
I nod. I can cope with that. Vegetarian meals tend to be uninspired wherever you go, and this hotel seems nice enough. "Are your beds soft?"
She nods. "I'm telling the truth, not just saying that 'cause my parents own it. The beds here are better than mine at home."
"Alright. Two rooms?"
She nods, and taps at the computer. "Next to each other or not?"
"I don't mind. Uuummm, next to each other." I would be able to wake Nick up.
"Numbers forty-two and forty-four. Will you be checking in now?"
"Yeah. I'll just get some bags from the car."
"What name shall I register the rooms under?"
"Ian Miller." She taps again.
"Fine, Mr Miller. That'll be fifty-seven dollars for the rooms. Meals and everything else are billed separately." I fumble with my wallet and hand her the money. "Do you need help getting the bags?"
"No, thank you. They're only small." Nick has taken his rucksack into the gallery, but forgotten to take the Sex Pistols out of the CD player. I leave it in. After listening to the whole album twice through, I have to admit that they have extremely good drumbeats and guitar playing, and a lot of energy in their songs. I'm still going to subject Nick to my single Britney Spears CD on the way back.
I heft our overnight bags and my briefcase of papers to mark and take them back into the hotel. The receptionist smiles at me again. "Here're your keys."
"Thank you. Which floor?"
"Second. The elevator's over there, and the stairs are there."
I unlock room forty-two and look around. Fairly big, large window, and a double bed, which proves, after I sit on it, to be beautifully soft. I dump the bags on the bed and take the stairs two at a time. "I and my friend will be back in the evening," I say to the receptionist as I hand her the keys, "but my friend might come back without me. Can I give you his name?"
"Go ahead." She has a pen poised over a wodge of paper.
"Nick Portokalos."
She writes it down and nods. "If he comes back, I'll give him the keys."
"Can I leave my car in the parking lot? Is there anything to pay?"
"Hang on a sec. There's a sticker to say you're a customer of the hotel. We have an arrangement with the local authorities." She roots around in a drawer. "Gotcha!" She emerges triumphantly and hands me a small red sticker. "Put that on your windscreen."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
I walk back from the hotel, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Vason is not as small, nor as ugly as I had remembered. When my grandfather brought me, Vason's only attraction was the railway. The town's one tourist shop sold dingy postcards and cheap plastic models. Now, it seems to have a new lease of life. Buildings have been freshly painted, there's a park, and big maps with 'You are here' on them. It's become quite a pleasant place to be.
The gallery must have had quite a lot to do with that. When I get into it, after paying a price that edges on extortionate, light and colour hit me. I simply wasn't expecting the scale of the exhibition, you know? Nick was right. It's incredible. Paintings that I've only ever seen reproductions of, Sisley and Monet and C�zanne. Liquid canvases with light streaming out of them, bright colours and thick, confident brushstrokes. Degas' Absinthe, Manet's Barge, Morisot's Young Girl at the Ball...
I walk through the gallery, feeling my way into the Impressionist world for the next three hours, until I find Monet's Japanese Bridge 1900, something I have only ever seen on postcards, and the most beautiful painting ever created, I have decided. Luminous greens and gorgeous pinks, intensely bright and exotic colours, with a slight blurring to the whole composition. It's enchanting and sharp, so beautiful that it hits me right down in my gut, and has me entranced, standing in front of it for half an hour, until I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see Nick.
"We've had our tour and lecture," he says, smiling at me. "Coming to get lunch?"
"Yeah." I give Japanese Bridge one last glance.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
I nod. "The colours." I wave my hands speechlessly, and Nick grins.
"Yeah. Coming? The caf�'s quite good."
I follow Nick to the caf�, and sit with him and his friends. "This is Ian, guys." I feel really awkward. Ten years older than everyone here, and I'm not even Nick's friend. I'm his chaperon. I keep silent while the chatter waxes and wanes around me.
"So, Nick." A pretty blonde girl. "Your parents thought you needed looking after by your brother-in-law."
Nick winces slightly. "They're overprotective." I feel like an interloper, an old man. Nick shrugs. "Greek."
"Mmm." I can hear the subtext. Even if you had to come with him, does he have to sit at our table?
I gulp the last bite of my sandwich and stand up. "See you at five, Nick."
Nick looks up. "Yeah, see you."
As I walk away, I can hear someone saying "He's in, like, his thirties, isn't he?" I don't think, in isolation, that there is anything odd about my friendship with Nick. We're just two people who get on quite well. But held up and examined by society, I'm thirty-two to his twenty-two, married to his older sister. Friendship can't exist between us, not proper friendship, according to those small rules that govern lives. It has to have a different name. Familial feeling. Politeness. Obligation.
I immerse myself in the paintings again. It's always slightly disorienting, realising that something that is perfectly normal to you is odd to outside eyes, but after another three hours I've forgotten it. They can think what they like. I make my way through thinning clumps of people to the gallery entrance and see the group standing there. "Mr Miller!" Dr Kensington smiles. "I hope you enjoyed the exhibition?"
"Very much. You?"
"Stunning. You'll be taking Nick back tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Goodbye, Nick." I reclaim Nick from his clinging group of friends.
"Good day?"
"Yep. Why'd you leave so quickly when we were having lunch?"
"Felt really uncomfortable."
"Oh. Do you have the car? 'Cause it's started raining. Storm finally broke."
I turn and look out of the glass doors, which are blurred with the bullets of rain. "Shit. We'll just have to run for it."
Nick looks down at himself, which leads my eyes down him too. My heart rate jiggles a bit, just enough to remind me of my crush. "I'm going to get soaked."
"So'm I. We'll have to run really fast."
We reach the Kathoid sodden and gasping. "Neat," Nick says.
"What?"
"The name. 'Kathoido' is Ancient Greek for 'I sleep'. Is it a Greek hotel?"
"Coincidentally, yes. Greek food, Greek dancing, pretty Greek receptionist." I push open the door. Nick smiles at the receptionist, who smiles back. I'm out of the equation.
"Can we have the keys for forty-two and forty-four, please?"
"Certainly, Mr Miller." At least she remembers me. "Is this Mr Portokalos?"
"I am. Call me Nick. And you are?" The little punk's flirting.
"Diana Emakros."
"Lovely to meet you, Miss Emakros."
"Diana, please, Nick."
"Of course."
"Nick!" I didn't realise my voice could go that low. It's almost a growl. "Come on. I'm sopping, you're sopping, and we're both cold."
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Ian." His eyes have that uncertain look again. I didn't mean to sound like I was going to control his every move and stop him from flirting. I'll explain that to him on the stairs. But I end up not explaining it to him, because he moves up the stairs efficiently and silently, three steps ahead of me. His face, when we reach the level, has a grim, clenched, screwed-up look to it. I'll explain at dinner.
"Is it okay if I have forty-two?" Nick shrugs. I continue the solitary conversation. "'Cause I've taken a liking to the colour scheme. Lighter blue than your room. Did you see The Three Poplars? Sort of the same blue as that. Only that all looked slightly watery and my room just looks cool and unchallenging." Nick still looks grim. "Um, here're the keys for forty-four. Isn't it cool to have the two rooms next to each other?" Yes, I know I'm babbling.
I forcibly restrain myself from going on to explain that Monet had said that each poplar painting represented only seven minutes of the day and turn, unlocking the door of forty-two. I push the door open. "See you in ten minutes for dinner," I say to Nick, and step into the room. I react with a bleep of surprise as Nick strides in behind me, closes the door and flips on the light. "Um, Nick? Changing out of wet clothes?"
Nick's hands twitch and curl slightly and he is breathing very deeply. He looks almost panicked, his gaze refusing to settle on me. "I-Ian?" His voice shakes.
"Yeah?" I suddenly feel slightly more in control of the situation, realising that he is not incandescent but terrified.
"If someone said they liked you, what would you do?"
Huh? "Um, be quite flattered? I mean, a new friend is always nice."
"No, I mean if a guy said they liked you."
"I have no prejudice against male friends." I'm really confused now, and Nick is turning an agonising dull red.
"No, I mean like." I swear his eyes are glistening slightly. Tears of frustration or just nerves?
Shit. It's too long since I was a nervous twenty-year-old, not even able to talk about anything vaguely relating to sex in front of someone older. "You mean like as in dates and sex?"
"Yeah."
"Personal experience?"
"J-just hypothetical."
"Tell them I was married."
"A guy?"
"Yeah, sure. I mean, if I was attracted to them I'd say so, and I'd always be nice about it, but I'm married."
"If you were attracted to them?"
"Yeah."
"Shit." Nick's whole body is shaking with tension. He runs a hand through his hair and then looks up at me, face open and so goddamn young. Has one of his friends put him in this tricky situation? He didn't look this uncomfortable when he said goodbye to them at the gallery. He takes one shaky step nearer, and then suddenly, in a rush of stumbling steps is right up against my chest, kissing the side of my mouth.
I just stand there, almost paralysed. When did the situation go from me advising him abut someone else's crush on him to him kissing me? The kiss is clumsy and desperate and I'm not helping at all, my arms hanging limply by my sides, my mouth pressed closed. But... this is Nick. Jesus Christ. What the hell is going on?
I push him away violently and back away several steps for good measure. "What the fucking hell was that?" I'm not shouting, I'm hissing.
Nick is hunched up small in the corner of the room. The tension and shaking has gone, replaced by a sort of leaden, relieved but doomed inertia. "That was..." He looks up at me and lifts his chin just a little. Now the dreadful deed is over, he seems more able to face me. His exposure is done and dusted. "That was a guy liking you."
"Fuck, Nick. I'm married to your sister, in case you didn't notice. Or did you miss that? I got fucking confirmed or baptised or whatever it fucking is into your church for that wedding. I would hope it was fucking memorable." I've got to calm down, I note subconsciously. Four fucks in ten seconds.
"I know." Nick's voice is small and he looks a little like he's going to cry.
"You know? You know? The fuck you know, Nick. Did you think I was just going to swoon at your feet like your mummy and daddy? Huh? Or maybe you figured I was getting bored with one Portokalos. Might as well have the other. Shit. Maybe I'll go for Angelo next, eh, Nick? You know, got to get all of you." The words spew from my mouth, foul, violent words. I want Nick to bleed and cry and realise. "Or maybe you wanted a fucking threesome with Toula? Maybe that's -"
"Shut the fuck up." Nick has unhunched himself from the corner and he looks suddenly angry. "You mess me around, you fuck me up, and then you have the fucking gall to stand there and swear at me."
"I mess you around? Sort your fucking head out, Nick. I'm not the one who just threw myself at you. I haven't been wearing tight clothes all day or sprawling around in my seat like a whore."
"No, you're the one who's been watching me and fucking touching me and smiling at me and then I throw myself at you and you don't catch me. You didn't fucking catch me, Ian."
"Well, maybe I didn't want the throw." But my virulence has gone. He's right, and he's exhausted and angry and utterly miserable. "Shit, Nick." The Anglo-Saxon syllable encompasses the whole wretched situation. I can't shout at someone as wrung-out as Nick. "Come on, come and sit beside me. I'm sorry - we need to talk about this."
His eyes are wary as he approaches, and he perches on the edge of the bed. I sling my arm around him and pull him a bit nearer. He stiffens. "Probably a bad idea," he mutters.
"What, you might scare the straight boy away with physical contact? I'm a bit bendy, Nick, I thought I made that clear. We need a hug." He knows that I mean that he needs a hug, but he relaxes, and leans a little bit nearer, head on my shoulder. "You can cry if you want," I murmur. "Not being caught can give you a nasty bruise."
"Quick transition. You were swearing at me a second ago." His voice has a sort of choked quality to it.
"Shock." I note with satisfaction that my shoulder is a little bit wet. "How long?"
"Don't know. You always looked at me like I was attractive."
I've obviously done some damage. "You are. Very attractive. It's just that you're my wife's brother, and you're young and straight and Greek."
"Straight? Hah!"
"Well, you've definitely been going out with girls..."
"Non-practising gay. Can you imagine what my family would do - you're not going to tell Toula are you?" He sits up, eyes raw and face panicked.
"No, of course not. She thinks gays have something wrong with them. But I'm sure they'd still love you."
"You can't be sure, and I don't want to lose any of them."
"Mmm." I push his head back on my shoulder. His hands twist in his lap. "So you're inexperienced then?"
"Completely." Shit. Innocents are my kink. "Both ways."
"What? Nick - what about that parade of girlfriends?"
"Who were all Greek."
"Oh. Yeah, makes sense."
"Plus. I mean..." He's gone that painful red again and his knuckles are cracking as he twists his hands. I catch his hands and hold them still in his lap.
"They weren't men?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Where now? He's relaxing slightly against me, his hands twisted into mine. "So what brought this evening on?"
"Don't know. Can't remember when I realised I fancied you - it's just been going on for ages."
I feel in control, the older, more experienced man. Nick feels small and warm beside me. "Okay. Well, I realised the first time I saw you painting." Shit. I don't believe that just came out of my mouth. Am I suicidal, do you think?
"You�" Nick slithers around sharply and stares at me. "You fancy me?"
"Um. Yeah? Still married to your sister." Nick moves a bit closer. His expression is determined.
"Just one night? Then we can go back and forget about it. You get rid of attraction by acting on it."
That is a pile of bullshit. I know it's a pile of bullshit. I open my mouth to say it's a pile of bullshit. Nick's big Greek eyes are fixed on me. "I...I'll decide." Could I cop out any more obviously? To make it worse, I go on to say, "We have to have dinner first." I shake my head and snap myself out of it. "Nick? I'm married to your sister?"
"Yeah." The determined expression is still on his face. "I'm not planning to tell her."
"Family loyalty? Does the phrase mean anything to you? The definition generally includes not sleeping with your sister's husband."
I'm waiting for him to deflate and agree. Nick never struck me as the dishonourable type. Instead, his expression becomes even more determined. "Fuck Toula. She thinks she's the only one allowed to break out of the family's clutches. She wants the rest of us to stay Greek and support her in her bravery. Well, I'm fucking tired of that. I'm gay and I fancy you, and please Ian?"
I'm taken aback at the resentment. "I've never noticed her wanting you to stay Greek."
Nick affects a high falsetto. "So when are you getting married, Nick? To a Greek girl, I hope? Mum and Dad would have a heart attack if someone else married a xenos." He drops the voice. "And then I went to her and sort of started hinting that I thought I might be gay because I thought she would support me and before I'd spoken more than two words she told me to forget my morbid fancies, and that I was perfectly normal."
"Oh." Now that I think about it, I have noticed that sometimes Toula says something that grates slightly with the image of a liberated woman who wants everyone else to be liberated around her. "But she supported you with the art."
"That's different. It's not a fundamental change to my outlook on life. She's always known I loved drawing. But God forbid I should ever do anything to rock her cosy little boat!" He makes a guttural, frustrated sound, then shakes his head violently. When he looks up again, he's changed track completely. "Please, Ian?"
I stand up and shake my head with sudden decision. "I'm not going to string you along, Nick. Toula's my wife, and I love her. If you've got a problem, have it out with her. Don't involve me in some power play."
"Power play!" Nick squawks indignantly. "This is not a power play, Ian, but if you think that little of me, then you can just fuck off. It's time to eat." And before I can answer, he's out of the room, banging the door behind him.
Jesus Christ.
God.
***
I slump down on the bed and reach listlessly for a shirt, but when I have it I just stare at it. I'm sure my brain is going to start leaking out of my ears and mouth any second. It's impossible to absorb this much information. I have a tension headache gripping my head in a huge pair of nutcrackers, and I feel as though changing my clothes is an insurmountable obstacle.
Nick is gay.
Nick fancies me.
Nick is a virgin.
Nick resents Toula.
Nick...
And Christ, I know what you're thinking. Oh, it's all going to end happily ever after. He's in denial. Really, he loves Nick. I'm protesting too much, yeah? Methinks you protest too much, Horatio. Was it Horatio? Was it even Shakespeare? Or is that a sort of faux Shakespeare quotation, one that's evolved, you know? Like, 'Is this a dagger I see before me, hilt to my hand?' I looked that up. Incorrect, but half the people I know are convinced it comes from Macbe - the Scottish play.
I'm going to say it one more time, and then I hope I'll have convinced you. This isn't the panicky fluttering of a man stuck in a perfect moment who doesn't want to admit that everything's changed. I, Ian Miller, have promised to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for better, for worse, till death us do part. I keep my promises. I don't make them unless I intend to keep them, and I love Toula.
I didn't say that, of course. It was in Greek, and I didn't understand it, and it went on for a very long time. Toula looked beautiful, and she was smiling so brightly. I remember, none of her family was really smiling, not like her, except for� Nick. It comes back to him, doesn't it? Why is it that the only two clear memories I have from my wedding day are my wife's smile and my wife's brother's smile?
Maybe I am in denial. Maybe... just call me Horatio? I can't decide this just sitting here, just thinking about it on my own. I'll end up succumbing to Nick if I think about it for too long, just because he's nearer. I'm better than that. I know, whatever else I may do, that I'm better than to cheat on my wife while she's so far away, and can't even slap me around the face and demand a divorce. I've got to talk to Toula.
But what do I say? "Hey, babe, just thought I'd let you know that I really want to fuck your baby brother. You cool with that?" For Christ's sake, no! I'll have to improvise, be gentle... Fuck, whom am I kidding? Is there a gentle way to tell your wife that you're seriously attracted to another member of her family?
"Ian?" Nick's knocking on the door. His voice sounds furious. He's obviously more together than I, to have changed clothes.
"Coming." It's not a lie. The intrusion has shattered my inertia, and I'm moving quickly. "Are you going to stay after dinner for the Greek dancing?"
"Greek dancing?" He's completely thrown, I can tell by his voice. I am absolutely determined that this evening's going to be normal. My headache is still squeezing my head between adamant jaws.
"Yeah, Greek dancing. You know the stuff? I somehow got an inkling you might have done it before."
"Hmm." He seems to accept the change of pace. His voice is no longer simmering with fury. "But it'll be the tourist stuff, won't it? The sort of stuff you do."
"Piss off." I say it lightly. "No, I think this hotel's pretty genuine."
"Yeah, maybe I'll stay." He steps back as I open the door and gives me a crystalline little smile which flickers slightly as he makes eye-contact with me. "You?"
"I'll watch." And I hadn't meant to make anything out of those words but somehow his eyes fall and a pink flush tinges his cheeks. Shit. "That receptionist - she's the daughter of the people who own this place? - looks like she'll be a good dancer. If she's there." Saved with a nice offence.
"Oh, yeah." Nick is smiling again, brittle and fragile. "I might ask her to partner me." Offence.
"Mmm. I don't know. You might not be able to keep up." And on the surface it's a joke, and both Nick and I manage a fairly natural smile but underneath I've somehow found my mark. When did I start aiming? "Coming?" I'm clattering down the stairs before he can answer, keeping just ahead of him so I don't have to look at his face. When we get to the bottom I turn and face him with more self-possession and we walk into the dining room together.
It's... less of a tourist trap than I expected. No self-consciously Greek men in waistcoats sitting around playing the lyre, very few painted olive leaves. Diana - hell, if he can call her Diana then I can - sees us and smiles at Nick in welcome as she comes over. Nick smiles back. "Table for two?"
Something about the way she says that rubs me on the raw. It sounds to my ears like an insinuation. It's probably obvious why we both look so strained. "Oh, we're not together." The words come out of my mouth very quickly.
"Two single tables?" Diana, to her credit, doesn't even blink, but Nick's face stiffens.
"No, a double."
"So you do want a table for two?"
"Yes. I was just saying..." Have I gone insane, do you reckon? What am I doing? "Nothing. Got confused."
"Table for two, then?" I nod, and Nick, after a momentary hesitation, does so as well. Diana hurries off and we trail after her, determinedly not looking at each other. Even when we are seated opposite each other over a small, round table, we manage to avoid each other's eyes. "Drinks?" Diana asks, standing with a pink pen poised over a workmanlike pad of paper.
"Bottle of house?" I ask. "Is it decent stuff?"
Diana smiles. "It's fine. Above average. Red or white?"
Carefully concentrating on Nick's forehead, rather than his eyes, I venture to look in his direction. "What would you prefer, Nick?"
"White would be lovely."
"White then." Diana nods and the pen mars the clean paper.
"It won't be a minute, gentlemen." When she has gone, Nick picks up his menu and stares purposefully at it, his jaw stubborn. I glance at the menu blindly, confirming my suspicion that only the salad is vegetarian, and then stare at the single orchid on the table. It's a diluted blue, and provides little protection from the danger of meeting Nick's eyes. I wish fervently for a huge bouquet of flowers.
"Are you paying?" The tone is detached, and I glance up, startled, meeting Nick's eyes and getting stuck there. "I don't mean to be rude, but I have no money with me." His eyes are detached as well.
"Oh - oh yeah. Your mother gave me money for that sort of thing."
"Oh, good. Have you decided on your meal?"
Nick's taken charge. Indifference seems to be the order of the day. "Potato salad. The vegetarian side of things isn't really too wide-ranging. Have you decided?"
"I thought the lamb." We are interrupted by Diana with our wine. Once the affair of distributing glasses and pouring the wine is over, the pen is again gently positioned over her pad.
"Are you ready to order?"
"Potato salad and the char-grilled lamb, please." I glance at Nick for confirmation.
"Lovely choice. Mint with the lamb?"
"Please." Nick bestows a smile on Diana, and she smiles back. Once she has left with our order, I take a sip of the wine. Diana was right. Perfectly acceptable, nice and light. "Did you enjoy the exhibition?" Nick's face is entirely expressionless, not a flicker staining the cool smile.
"Yes. Very good." I want to say more, want to explode into passionate discussion, because God! I keep saying this, but the light. The colour. I restrain myself and ask with equal civility, "Did you enjoy it?"
"It was very enjoyable." Silence falls again, a silence pitted with traps. I gaze around the room. "We need to talk." It bursts out of Nick against his will, shattering the pool of silence and sending ripples in every direction. I am certain that everyone is listening to our conversation. My head snaps back to Nick.
"Not here." My voice is a desperate hiss.
"Why not?" Nick's voice has become louder.
"Shh!" The syllable is violent. "I will talk to you, but later, for Christ's sake."
"Why later?" It's really not just paranoia. Heads are turning. I just want Nick to shut the fuck up, and he won't. Public embarrassment's normally not a really big deal to me, but the situation was already tense. "Ian, I would prefer to discuss the fact that me fancying you is not a fucking power play sooner rather than later."
Now nobody can accuse me of hypersensitivity. The band has stopped warming up and is staring at us. I stand up abruptly and glare at Nick. "I'll be in my room." It is easier to leave than I had imagined. People return determinedly to their food, pointedly not looking. Diana ignores me.
I look back as I leave the room to see Nick isolated in a ring of turned backs. He is that painful red again, the one that looks like it physically hurts him, and I can't be bothered to spare any sympathy for him. Stupid idiot asked for it. I didn't. I was just trying to eat.
***
