longer marble. The taut musculature was alive, the lines and swells intimately moulded by the thin, pale draperies he wore. The lashes of his eyes quivered, the fine hair around his lips trembled as he respired. Elias watched as Belamis paused at the foot of the recess and addressed its occupant in soft but stern tones.
‘Great god of war,’ he said, ‘listen to me and bend to the power of my triumphant beauty— I am Belamis.’
The noble head above him bowed obediently.
‘I bid you lay down your sword and put aside your shield,’ he continued, ‘forsake arms and the instruments of war to practice amorous arts, this once. I charge you to test the devotion of Elias, who presumes to love with such dedication. Smite his love, and see how it endures the blow. If you do this, and if the challenge befalls as I hope, I will plant here a golden pear tree, which will blossom and fruit for you always.’
At this, Mars reached out his brawny hand and took that of Belamis, as if to step forth and enact the request; but the vivid brightness of their fingertips as they touched was so fierce that Elias screwed up his eyes, and when he opened them again, he realised that the morning sun was filtering between his bedroom curtains and blinding him.
He rose feeling refreshed and full of health, with the incidents of the dream branded upon his thoughts. He hurried outside to view again with his waking eyes the scenes his mind had conjured, and it was almost a disappointment to glance down the avenue between the summer and autumn gardens to find the mottled statue of Venus in its accustomed place, as ever.
With a sigh, both for his own silliness and the demise of an idle hope, he made to return to the house. But his musings were interrupted by a salutation from the gardener, who was gathering fruit from the laden branches in the autumn quadrant. Elias murmured a greeting dismissively, and carried on. He had not forgiven the gardener for his wanton disposal of the goldfish, and rarely spoke to him, except to give orders for whatever maintenance he required. As he went through the gate, however, he halted abruptly, and leaned against the wall in confusion.
As discreetly as possible he turned his head to look back into the garden, where the man was placing a ladder and climbing the first few rungs to reach the pendant fruit. There was no mistake: in the person of Mars, Elias had been dreaming of the gardener.
He smiled, and shook his head wonderingly. ‘How ridiculous!’ he thought. ‘If Belamis were to really test the strength of my attachment to him, he would have to appoint someone better than that oaf to tempt me!’ —and he continued indoors.
Once settled he considered what had put the notion into his head. The gardener’s build was certainly statuesque, and he was a four-square, straightforward sort of man, such as Elias supposed Mars would be— and besides (doubtless the keystone to it), the gardener’s first name was Marios— there lay the origin of the idea. ‘But even so, my affections are certainly safe from him!’ he reassured himself. ‘I never liked the man from the beginning.’
The reason for this antipathy was that the fellow could be insufferably flirtatious when he chose to be— one of those people who flirt as a pastime. He would use his thick foreign accent and apparent lack of English to load double-meanings into his conversation, and make suggestive remarks under the guise of ignorance. A smirk or a wink were his flags of victory whenever he managed to perturb his victim. Furnival found these antics amusing, and shrugged them off as harmless, but Elias was too sensitive to bear such humour, and avoided the irritation as well as he could.
However, because the very idea that such a clown could sway his emotions was preposterous to Elias, he did not fear to encounter any such clumsy innuendos in future. He knew how to treat them with the indifference they deserved. With this confidence he went back to the garden in the afternoon, even though he knew Marios would be there, and nodded to the gardener almost defiantly as he entered.
The latter looked up with a surprised smile at this unexpected attitude, and called out as he hoisted up a full barrel of apples with one arm: ‘You like this?’
Elias stopped and turned. His derision became amusement as he surveyed the man almost posing to demonstrate his strength. ‘Well done,’ he replied. ‘But I prefer pears.’
Marios smiled and let down the barrel. ‘You want some?’ he enquired, pressing his tongue against his cheek.
Elias folded his arms and walked over, feeling quite equal to the contest. ‘I’ll pick my own, thank you.’
The gardener obligingly seized the ladder and propped it against the nearest pear tree. ‘You want me—?’ he asked, casually leaving off ‘to help you’.
‘No, Marios,’ said Elias steadily, ‘I don’t want you.’ And with that he started up the ladder. The other watched him closely, and the gaze was as disconcerting as any taunt.
‘Yes you do,’ he affirmed.
‘I assure you I don’t.’
‘You do. I catch.’
‘I’m in no danger of falling.’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘No. You drop pears to me, I catch them. But I catch you too, if you want. I keep you safe.’
‘I’m safe enough, believe me.’
‘No, you are not safe, not at all.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You reach too far, maybe.’
‘Maybe not. Maybe you want me to fall, Marios, so you’ll get a chance to catch me?’
‘Well, if this happens, you are safe with me.’
‘I doubt that! With you I’d really be in danger. But I’m not afraid. You can’t touch me.’
‘No? You think so?’ He smiled provocatively, reached up and put his warm hand upon Elias’s waist.
‘I mean,’ said Elias, with a self-satisfied smile, ‘you can’t touch my heart, no matter where you put your hands.’ He descended the ladder.
Marios plucked a pear from the barrel and bit into it. ‘You don’t like me?’ Elias took no notice. ‘No, you don’t like,’ he went on, musing. ‘You don’t like me, you don’t like no-one.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Elias demanded, goaded.
He shrugged. ‘You don’t. You are not nice to me. You are not even nice to your husband.’
Elias did not expect to hear such commentary from the hired help. He was at a loss how to respond. The gardener took another contemplative bite.
‘You are like this pear— sour and hard.’
‘Those pears are ripe and sweet,’ Elias defied, fuming. ‘And as to me— well— that’s none of your business!’
Marios held forth the pear. ‘You try it.’
‘I don’t want to!’
‘You don’t like the taste?’
‘It’s been in your mouth!’
‘You don’t like the taste?’ he repeated, with a wry smile.
Infuriated, Elias snatched the half-eaten fruit from his outstretched fingers, but as soon as he clutched it, Marios caught his hand to prevent him drawing away.
Elias made no effort to escape. He raised his chin and regarded the other man haughtily. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? My heart belongs to another. I’m impervious to you. Whatever you do or say, however you try, you cannot reach me.’
Marios inclined his head so that their noses almost touched. ‘You talk a lot,’ he said.
‘My first line of defence,’ Elias retorted, and, satisfied that he had proved his point, bit into the pear.
It did taste rather bitter; and no sooner did he close his mouth upon it than his first line of defence was breached. The warm hand slipped around his waist again and Marios kissed the juice from his lips.
Elias protested, naturally, and spat out the bit of pear, but one kiss is seldom without kin. We can all say ‘No’ of course— but we can hear ‘No’ too, and for sure Marios never heard that from Elias, for all the words he used.
Nevertheless, the tryst did not last long— they were quickly interrupted. Elias looked up to see Furnival stood framed by the circular gate, his face ashen white. They had not even heard him arrive.
Im
mediately he departed again, and with a cry Elias pursued, but was too late to apprehend him before he drove away. He ran after the car, calling out, but Furnival did not stop.
Shocked and suddenly chilled, Elias walked slowly back towards the house, his face in his hands, his teeth gritted painfully hard. Once there he dropped onto the threshold, reluctant to enter.
Sometimes we suddenly feel a sense of perspective assert itself, to readjust all our indulgent perceptions, and so it was with Elias then. When Marios first kissed him, he fondly remembered the challenge of his dream, and regretted that he had betrayed Belamis. But now he discovered the flattering delusion of that regret. He had not betrayed Belamis— he had betrayed his husband, Matthew Furnival. And he had not betrayed him with one man, but two: one living, one dead. Playing a game of seduction that afternoon, pitching his desire against his husband’s trust was certainly faithless; but he had already abused that trust longsince, in his adulation of Belamis. One infidelity with his lips, the other with his heart. Neither amounted to much, as infidelities go— anyone more lenient might forgive themselves immediately— but to Elias, his acts of both feeling and deed were abominable. He saw the shock of the wound in Furnival’s eyes, and could not endure to think that it was he who had hurt his blameless husband so carelessly.
Now what could he do? How could he repair the damage? Furnival would surely attribute his protracted coldness to a passion for Marios, and even if he were to persuade him otherwise, the truth— a passion for