After I packed up, I stood outside on Via Della Gensola, the little street with the clay windowsills, the motorcycles parked along the walls, the whispers of Italian conversation flowing out the windows. What was my next move?
I managed to bum around Rome for a few hours. In a café. On some steps. And then I remembered: Jahan lived nearby. I thought I’d go ask him for advice—whether I should stay in Rome, what I should say to my parents. He seemed to know everything, and he’d been in my boat before, or at least half of it, with his Iranian dad.
Jahan’s apartment was across the street from an art gallery–themed café in Trastevere, I remembered—“I like to look at the artwork from my window,” he had mentioned the night before. I didn’t know which unit was his, so I buzzed every single one. I got a few angry and confused Italians, but eventually I got Jahan. He let me up.
When he opened the door, Jahan was buttoning up a short-sleeved shirt with dinosaurs printed all over. “What a surprise. It’s the American!” he exclaimed. “I’m getting dressed for a dinner party at my friend Giovanni’s. Would you like to join?”
“Oh no,” I said, flustered. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t taarof me, Amir. I invited you. Accept.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Taarof—the Iranian tradition of pretending to turn something down out of politeness. And hey, it’s not every day you’re invited to an Italian dinner party. I’d figure out a place to stay later. I accepted Jahan’s invitation, he told me to leave my duffel in a corner next to a stack of poetry books—he didn’t ask any questions—and we took off.
The apartment was gigantic. It took up three floors in an old building in Monti, a neighborhood near the Colosseum. It was like entering a museum, with marble busts and antiques sprinkled around, and a twelve-foot-tall painting hanging over the dining room table. The apartment belonged to Giovanni Marcello di Napoli, who opened the door and air-kissed Jahan on each cheek. Giovanni was wearing a tight black shirt, tight jeans, and a belt with the letter G on it. I guess he really liked his name. He led us through an ornate room to a group of men, all fit, all wearing tank tops or tight T-shirts.
Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour, so we floated around the room. Everyone was in their late twenties, like Jahan, maybe their early thirties. Jahan introduced me to his friends, and I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t just the age difference. One of them was wearing hoop earrings. Another had pristinely arched eyebrows and spoke with a strong lisp. I thought being around people like me would feel like the perfect shoe fit, but instead, it felt like I had stepped into high heels.
-15: Might not get along with other gay men.
“Ciao, Giovanni!” I heard from the other room. I recognized the voice, even though I’d only heard it speaking English before. It was like an avalanche, the way that perfect human rushed right back into my mind. The mess of brown hair. The perfectly symmetrical face. The not-too-muscular arms and tousle of chest hair poking out of his loose tank top.
I was standing next to the big painting—a Caravaggio, Jahan had told me—when Neil entered the room, and as he approached, I puffed my shoulders and bumped into the gilded frame. “I remember you!” he said, pointing at me. I swear I died right there. It’s possible I literally melted into the canvas. “You’re the boy from the bookstore,” Neil added, and this time, I managed a smile.
We were huddled in the back of the dining room, away from everyone else. Jahan, Neil, Giovanni, me, and this naked painted lady with her arm in the air, all ta-da in the painting. “So, Jahan tells me you are a writer,” Giovanni said, eyeing Jahan and Neil. His voice was a mix of Italian and high-society British, and if I had to describe his aesthetic, it’s tank-top-monocle-chic. “Do you write books?”
“No, no,” Jahan said. “He’s far too young to be a novelist.”
“We did meet in a bookshop,” Neil added kindly.
“Who do you write for?” Giovanni asked quickly. The three of them exchanged glances, like they had already discussed my prolific writing career on some text thread. Even Caravaggio’s naked lady looked suspicious.
I was about to reply when Jahan cut me off. “We know who you really are, Amir.”
I froze. And then Jahan looked at the other guys, clapped his hands up to his chest and giggled. “Oh! That was far more dramatic than I intended it to be. I just meant to say, we know you’re not really a writer.”
“What?” I replied.
Jahan gave me a side-eye. “Oh, come on. You’re hiding something. I mean, you’re eighteen years old and you’re in Rome, by yourself, to ‘write.’ Come on. Either you’re the Nigerian prince of ‘writers,’ or some Talented Mr. Ripley wannabe, or something is up. You’re not fooling anyone. Now, just tell us. We’re your friends. What really brought you to Rome?”
I looked around frantically at the antique busts and miniature ships all over the room. It was seriously a wonder that this place didn’t have air-conditioning. My armpits were damp, and my palms were slick. I was burning up. I felt exposed, I wanted no part in this conversation, and I wanted to leave. But I also wanted to know who this “talented” Mr. Ripley was, and was it a compliment? Yet another reference I didn’t understand. Yay.
But then one magic line struck me like paint hitting a canvas: we’re your friends. Jahan had stated it as plain, unambiguous fact. Was that how it worked in gay world? Was being attracted to men somehow all it took to be friends—a common experience to bond us instantly and forever? In this moment, it seemed that way. It seemed these people had accepted me into their tribe for no other reason than that. And if that was the case, then it was entirely possible that they would understand why I’d lied to them. Jahan, Neil, Giovanni—they would uniquely understand why I came to Rome.
I decided I would tell them the truth.
“I was supposed to graduate high school this week,” I told them. “But I ended up leaving home instead, because . . .” They formed a circle around me, leaning in closer like I was telling them a secret. “Because . . .” I got nervous. My mind raced through all the shit I’d have to explain: Jackson. The blackmail. My parents. I would have to explain the tallies, the signs, the culture. And suddenly, I wondered if these seasoned gay men maybe wouldn’t understand my situation—if they would judge me for not having the courage to just say the words. To come out to my parents like they had.
So I switched gears: “My parents kicked me out for being gay.”
Interrogation Room 37
Amir
I CAN’T HELP but notice that you keep staring at the cut on my face. It’s fresh, from yesterday morning, after my family found me in the mountains with Neil. There was a bit of a scuffle, as you’ve probably guessed. And it did get a little violent. But I’ll get to that later.