“No, he doesn’t.”
I am older now, sitting at the bedside of my ailing brother. Valentin’s speech is broken, throat raspy and weak. Not much longer and he will be unable to speak. Our time is running out.
“Am I doing enough?”I ask. I need his validation now more than ever.
“More than enough. I trusted you with my most precious possession and you’ve cared for him just as I knew you would. You are teaching him so many things.”
“He misses you.”
“I know he does, but he is yours now, Silvio. He chose you. He chose to love you and serve you, so cherish him.”
“But there are things I cannot give him, may never be able to give him.”
“You will find a way. A man as stubborn as you, I know that you will.”
Valentin’s voice fades away, replaced by the church piano. Giovanni is playing while the rest of the congregation sings, open-throated and worshipful. The harmonies ebb and flow in my mind, our past, present, and future melding into one circular chorus, and when my fever finally breaks, I open my eyes and find my beautiful angel staring down at me.
“There you are,” Giovanni says with a smile of relief. “Thank the gods.”
“You’re comingwith me today to visit Master,” Giovanni says to me the next morning when I’ve fully recovered from my strange illness. Despite his gentle tone, I know this is not a request.
It’s part of his daily routine, the short pilgrimage from the main house to the sculpture garden where Valentin is buried, one that we used to do together, until I began making excuses—work, emails, phone calls, etcetera. But Giovanni, devoted, loyal Giovanni, has faithfully visited my brother’s gravesite every single day he’s been on the island.
The cobblestone path is lined with bougainvillea that spills out of large, weathered urns. There are a few natural fountains as well. When Valentin was bound to a wheelchair, we would stroll along this path and admire the various sculptures my brother had collected and commissioned over the years. I have pictures of Giovanni posing by some of them, looking silly for the rare smile of amusement from his Master.
Giovanni is the one who arranged to have Valentin buried here on the property, enlisting the help of Valentin’s lawyer and probably spending a small fortune in bribes. The sculpture that marks his grave is something Giovanni had custom-made. A winged god swooping down to cradle a nude woman and revive her with love’s kiss. It’s a smaller marble replica of the sculpture of Psyche and Cupid which, Giovanni explained to me, depicts the story of a courtship and marriage between a god and a mortal that transcended even death.
Giovanni is a romantic.
The flowers on Valentin’s grave are fresh, handpicked by Gio from the garden and arranged artfully by his own hand. I’ve brought my offerings as well, the type of cigar Valentin liked to smoke and a bottle of his favorite Scotch.
Giovanni says a few poetic words, then walks a little ways down the path so that I might make my offerings in private. I go down to one knee and arrange my gifts. The marble headstone is cold as I draw my fingers over the etching of his name.
“I miss you,” I say, for that is at the core of my anger. Valentin was the one who’d taken me under his wing when everyone else, even my mother, had thrown up their hands and given up on my future. The things Giovanni wants from me—to be his rock, his anchor—that was what Valentin had always provided to me.
“And I’m sorry,” I continue, “for my distance near the end. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you the way Giovanni was, if that was what you wanted.”
I run one hand through my hair and shake my head.
“You were always so strong, never wanting anyone to see you when you were sick or in pain. I didn’t know what to do or how to help you. And everything you’ve given me… I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve it. You were the one who taught me gratitude and at times I feel so… ungrateful.”
I take a deep breath and summon the song of my heart. “But I am grateful, for your many gifts and all that you’ve taught me. For your guidance and support. All this time I’ve worried you might be disappointed in me, but it was just my own insecurities. I will make mistakes with him, just as you have made mistakes, and I will make it right. None of us is perfect. Not even you, my beloved big brother.”
I drop my head, tears slipping silently down my face. The gravesite is silent, save for the buzzing of insects and twittering of birds overhead. A cool breeze lifts the hair from my forehead and tickles my neck. The warmth of the sun blankets me, and I recall what Giovanni said about being encircled by his Master’s golden light. Perhaps there is room in there for me too.
“There issomething I cannot give you,” I say to Giovanni a little while later. We are down by the shore sitting in the sugar-soft sand with our feet being licked by the shallow water.
“What’s that, Sir?” he asks sincerely.
“Pain.”
He stares at the ground between his knees, using his fingertip to make an artful loop in the damp sand. “I know that.”
“I will never be a sadist, Giovanni, I will never desire to hurt you in the way you need to be hurt.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” he asks, his voice strangely hollow.
“Because I need to be honest with you about my limitations. For as long as we are together, we will need to rely on someone else to provide you with what you need, and there is a chance you may gravitate to them, to what they can give you, and I must make peace with that.” It might be Leandro or some other sadist who hurts him so good that he forgets about me entirely.
