‘Why the hell do you want to see this damn monastery?’ Judd demanded.
It was an unmistakable invitation.
‘We’ve come all this way . . .‘ Mick tried to keep the tone conversational. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument.
‘More fucking Virgins, is it?’
Keeping his voice as even as he could, Mick picked up the Guide and read aloud from it… ‘there, some of the greatest works of Serbian painting can still be seen and enjoyed, including what many commentators agree to be the enduring masterpiece of the Raska school: “The Dormition of the Virgin.”’
Silence.
Then Judd: ‘I’m up to here with churches.’
‘It’s a masterpiece.’
‘They’re all masterpieces according to that bloody book.’
Mick felt his control slipping.
‘Two and a half hours at most —, ‘I told you, I don’t want to see another church; the smell of the places makes me sick. Stale incense, old sweat and lies…’
‘It’s a short detour; then we can get back on to the road and you can give me another lecture on farming subsidies in the Sandzak.’
‘I’m just trying to get some decent conversation going instead of this endless tripe about Serbian fucking masterpieces —,
‘Stop the car!’
‘What?’
‘Stop the car!’
Judd pulled the Volkswagen into the side of the road. Mick got out.
The road was hot, but there was a slight breeze. He took a deep breath, and wandered into the middle of the road. Empty of traffic and of pedestrians in both directions. In every direction, empty. The hills shimmered in the heat off the fields. There were wild poppies growing in the ditches. Mick crossed the road, squatted on his haunches and picked one.
Behind him he heard the VW’s door slam.
‘What did you stop us for?’ Judd said. His voice was edgy, still hoping for that argument, begging for it.
Mick stood up, playing with the poppy. It was close to seeding, late in the season. The petals fell from the receptacle as soon as he touched them, little splashes of red fluttering down on to the grey tarmac.
‘I asked you a question,’ Judd said again.
Mick looked round. Judd was standing the far side of the car, his brows a knitted line of burgeoning anger. But handsome; oh yes; a face that made women weep with frustration that he was gay. A heavy black moustache (perfectly trimmed) and eyes you could watch forever, and never see the same light in them twice. Why in God’s name, thought Mick, does a man as fine as that have to be such an insensitive little shit?
Judd returned the look of contemptuous appraisal, staring at the pouting pretty boy across the road. It made him want to puke, seeing the little act Mick was performing for his benefit. It might just have been plausible in a sixteen-year-old virgin. In a twenty-five-year-old, it lacked credibility.
Mick dropped the flower, and untucked his T-shirt from his jeans. A tight stomach, then a slim, smooth chest were revealed as he pulled it off. His hair was ruffled when his head re-appeared, and his face wore a broad grin. Judd looked at the torso. Neat, not too muscular. An appendix scar peering over his faded jeans. A gold chain, small but catching the sun, dipped in the hollow of his throat. Without meaning to, he returned Mick’s grin, and a kind of peace was made between them.
Mick was unbuckling his belt.
‘Want to fuck?’ he said, the grin not faltering.
‘It’s no use,’ came an answer, though not to that question.
‘What isn’t?’
‘We’re not compatible.’
‘Want a bet?’
Now he was unzipped, and turning away towards the wheat-field that bordered the road.
Judd watched as Mick cut a swathe through the swaying sea, his back the colour of the grain, so that he was almost camouflaged by it. It was a dangerous game, screwing in the open air — this wasn’t San Francisco, or even Hampstead Heath. Nervously, Judd glanced along the road. Still empty in both directions. And Mick was turning, deep in the field, turning and smiling and waving like a swimmer buoyed up in a golden surf. What the hell there was nobody to see, nobody to know. Just the hills, liquid in the heat-haze, their forested backs bent to the business of the earth, and a lost dog, sitting at the edge of the road, waiting for some lost master.