“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I said, recognizing the line. “That must be the theme.”
We were crowned almost immediately with wreaths of flowers and ushered inside where I was confronted yet again with Arden’s nude marble clone, now festooned with a sash of flowers and wearing a crown similar to our own.
“Is that—”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Michael,” Arden sang, rushing to greet us. He hugged Franco and Liam, then kissed me lightly. He wore a peasant blouse, unlaced nearly to his navel and brown, suede pants, snug enough to mimic deerskin. I could just make out two tiny horns protruding from his crown of leaves and bric-a-brac from the natural world.
“Puck,” I guessed, and he laughed in a spritely way.
“Yes, I’m very horny, you see?” He gave a cheeky grin, then spread his arms at our surroundings. “What do you think?”
The interior was lush and verdant with fresh flowers of every kind spilling out of doorways and hanging precariously from sconces. Living vines had been woven in the iron stair railings, rendering it unrecognizable. The interior looked very much like an English garden.
“Enchanting. I can’t believe you did all this.”
“Josie and her people helped.”
“Who’s Josie?”
“Josefina. Our flower lady.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder. “But wait until you see this.”
He dragged me by my arm to a large, gallery-sized room I’d not seen before. In the center was what appeared to be a ribboned May pole spanning from ceiling to floor, and who should be coiled around it like a striking cobra, but Marquis himself.
“I recruited some of Carousel’s talent. I hope you don’t mind,” he said to Franco. “I was so inspired by their performance.”
The music was of the baroque variety performed by a string quartet, all of them in formal attire. Colorful hammocks were anchored to the high ceilings and scattered around the room. On each of those harnesses, nude acrobats rippled and swelled to a gathering company of admirers. Their movements reminded me of synchronized swimming, only suspended in air.
“Aerial yoga,” Arden explained to the three of us.
“They are very flexible,” Franco remarked.
The party had the feeling of just getting started, with the dying sunlight still casting long shadows across the room, but I predicted soon enough, the lights would dim, and patrons might take advantage of the many secluded alcoves that had been formed by both shrubbery and delicate-looking screens.
“Drinks,” Arden said and led us to one of several bars where the bartenders wore leaf garlands and not much else.
“This isfantastico,” Franco said. His attention swung from the flesh on display to his lover’s erotic undulations, and I wondered if he might be regretting his vow of monogamy.
“Thank you. I invested myself pretty heavily in this one.”
“He’s outdone himself,” Matteo said, joining our little party. He wore a wine-colored suit, cut to fit his form perfectly. A crown of grape leaves encircled his head. Dionysus, I presumed. True to the god’s gluttonous character, Matteo held a waifish, pale-skinned red-head on one arm and a well-built man of Latin descent on the other. Arden made introductions. I could see the questions burning behind my friends’ eyes, and I only hoped they might show some restraint.
“Please, indulge yourselves,” Mateo said magnanimously. “Drink, eat, and be merry. There are rooms upstairs for anyone wanting a little more privacy.” His canny look riled me. I didn’t need his invitation to be affectionate with my lover.
Matteo departed to mingle. I noticed then, the disparity between his guests and those who I assumed had been hired as “entertainment,” in age, status, and their state of dress. The entertainment wore far fewer clothes, mostly of sheer and gauzy materials. Their physiques and ethnicities varied, but they all shared a similar allure, one that I recognized in Arden—young, hungry, and beautiful.
“They’re paid to attend,” Arden said, probably reading something on my face that I was trying hard not to show. “Anything beyond that is up to the individual.”
“The Ruspanti,” I mused. I’d looked up the word. It was the name for a cadre of attractive men and some women, mostly peasants, who’d entertained the Medici duke Gian Gastone in his Tuscan court.Ruspiwas the low-value coin they were paid for their services. Nowadays,ruspimeant prostitute.
“He has something of an obsession with the Medici,” Arden said.
Franco and Liam had drifted closer to where Marquis was making love to the pole, his body a flesh ribbon wrapping itself languorously around the metal. Franco wore a rapt expression, nodding absently to whatever Liam was nattering on about.
“I like the theme,” I told him. “Shakespeare would approve, I think.”
“Poor Mr. Horne had to take the week off. The flowers were too much for his allergies.”
