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Yusuf closes the door with a heavy sigh.
The kitchen is dark and quiet, and the stove is cold to the touch. He puts down the parcels he carried all the way from the market, lights the oil lamp and hangs it over the worktable. He does not venture into the adjacent room. There’s no need for that. He knows Nicolò is not home, and he buries the uneasiness it all entails deep inside his chest.
It would not be the first time Yusuf had to dine alone since the winds had turned too strong and too cold, forcing many galleys to stay in port. The taverns are packed full and so is La Sacra Infermeria, where Nicolò has built quite a reputation for himself in the past months. Still, it is Christmas Eve and when Yusuf woke up in the morning, he found a note in Nicolò’s handwriting asking him to bring home meat – rabbit, if he could not find rooster. He could not.
Joe needed to add some finishing touches in the Oratory to get the Conventual Church ready for midnight mass and it was the thought of Nicolò’s cooking that had kept Yusuf company as he worked all day long. The focus demanded by the job made it a bit easier for Yusuf to refuse the food offered by the brothers, though he did not manage to dissuade his fellow workers from shoving a cup of wine in his hands at the end of the day. It was light Sicilian wine, very cheap, sour, sold from the cask, and it had upset Yusuf’s empty stomach as he gulped it all down.
He thought he would feel guilty about downing the wine after, but he did not. The Ramadan had started two weeks before, but the truth was, he had not fasted every single day thence, nor did he sneak out to pray five times a day with the Muslim slaves out in the harbour, but he did watch them bowing towards Mecca as he walked home at the sunset. Nicolò never asked, never judged. His heart understood Yusuf as Yusuf sometimes did not understand himself.
Yusuf lights the logs inside the stove and coaxes the flames into life. He washes his hands and his face, shivering at the contact of the icy water against his naked jaw. Not for the first time, Yusuf wonders if it was truly necessary to shave off his beard. Its absence did not bother him that much during the summer months, but since the weather became wet and chilly, he dearly misses that extra layer of protection.
Nicolò has mourned the loss of Yusuf’s beard since the very start. He made no attempt to disguise his resentment, but in the end, they both agreed it would be easier for Yusuf to pose as an artist from Messina if he did not have a beard. Yusuf could easily replicate a proper Sicilian accent and of course, he knew every single Christian prayer in the world.
He called himself Joseph then. Sometimes, when the brothers were out of earshot, one of his less pious co-workers would jest that, while Yusuf was busy painting fluffy wings, an angel was probably paying his Virgin Mary a visit. It was easy to laugh at the blasphemous joke, and it made all the hard work a tad lighter. Yusuf took everything in stride, yet he could not help thinking about Nicolò, who was definitely far from a virgin – though sometimes he could blush like one, especially the times Yusuf kissed and licked him between his legs, his coarse stubble turning Nicolò’s pale skin red.
The thought of Nicolò naked and squirming under him brings some heat to Yusuf’s lower belly, but it’s not enough to chase away the cold from his bones. That coldness, Yusuf knows, has less to do with the weather and more with the emptiness in his soul, something that only grew since Quỳnh was taken. They did not have time to deal with that emptiness for decades when they searched for her in every port, from the North Sea to the coast of Africa and around the Mediterranean.
They would have continued searching for her forever if it had not been for Andromache, who sneaked out one night, leaving behind nothing but a note telling them she had to do this alone for a while. Nicolò wanted to follow their remaining sister no matter what and followed her they did. They were two steps behind Andromache for almost three years until they ended up stranded in Melita during a storm.
The islands have been under the Knights Hospitaller’s rule for half a century then, teeming with people from all over the Mediterranean. Yusuf reasoned that if there was a sailor left alive who knew anything about a witch locked in an iron coffin and thrown into the sea, they would eventually sail their way into the Grand Harbour. So far, none did, but they have lost Andromache’s track, so they decided to keep themselves busy, nursing the wounds in their hearts as they tried to do some good.
Yusuf had grown used to going without his daily prayers during their search. They were in constant move, and every new lead that led them nowhere chipped off a piece of his faith. He promised himself he would do better when they found Quỳnh, and it felt like a bargain he had little to offer in return. Then when became if and eventually, his despair festered into a wound that he felt bleeding under his skin.
More than once, Yusuf woke up feeling as if he was drowning in that very blood, with the taste of salt and rust on his tongue where he had sunk his teeth into. And maybe, if he could multiply that feeling by a thousand, maybe he would be able to grasp a fraction of what Quỳnh was feeling. More than once, Yusuf found himself praying, but it felt hollow – as if no one was listening. Eventually, Yusuf stopped, and at night he buried his face into Nicolò’s neck, weeping in silence as he realised maybe he should pray for his sister to die instead.
If it was Nicolò in her place, what would Yusuf do? How would he even live?
A shiver runs through his body as those thoughts run amok, and Yusuf stokes the flames in the stove with more force than necessary. Nicolò is on his way. Nicolò is coming home. He left a note in the morning, they made plans to spend the night together. No one has found out about them, no one has overheard them making love in the dead of the night, no one has seen either of them heal too fast from a too-deep cut. No one is coming for them. They will be fine.
Yusuf closes his eyes for a moment, calming his heart. He takes a deep breath and picks up a knife to cut the rabbit meat into smaller pieces. He does the same with carrots, onions, and garlic.
The work in the kitchen distracts him from his daunting thoughts, from his fear. In a way, it’s similar to painting. Once you get the sketch done and it’s only a matter of covering layers, you need to focus on your task, your mind does not get to wander too far, otherwise, your work will be ruined. So Yusuf focuses on the menial tasks at hand and he does not think about Nicolò and his whereabouts. He cooks and he waits.
The stew is bubbling by the time Yusuf overhears the door open behind him. He stirs the pot over the stove once before turning to look at his heart. Nicolò’s face is pink from the cold, and he smiles brightly when their eyes meet. Nicolò only takes the time to remove his shoes before he eagerly bridges the space between them, pressing their foreheads together. As Yusuf feels their breathing mingle, he thinks, there is nothing more sacred than this.
“My heart,” Yusuf whispers, kissing Nicolò’s cheek and then his lips. He tastes the cold wind in them, and he wonders if Nicolò can taste the sourness of the wine in his. “You had me worried.”
Nicolò’s eyes soften, and he kisses Yusuf back with intent, before hoovering over his shoulder to inspect the stew. There’s a pained look on his face and Yusuf knows he’s feeling guilty.
“It’s no matter,” Yusuf says sincerely. “It’s not often I get to make you Christmas dinner.”
Nicolò smiles kindly and after a beat, he says, “I delivered a baby today.” He sounds eager and proud, and Yusuf’s chest feels warm all over. “This woman was working in the kitchens of a nobleman, only a few streets over. She’s forty and seven and had gone through the change, so she never even realised she was expecting until the pains started. She never managed to carry a pregnancy to term before, she just thought she was putting on weight. There were no midwives available, so they sent for me.”
As Nicolò talks, Yusuf helps him out of his cloak and together they start to set the table. Yusuf lays out the bread he had bought earlier, along with goat’s-milk cheese and olives from their pantry. Nicolò pours them two cups of mulled wine.
“She had a little girl,” he continues, unable to hide his excitement. “Screamed the whole time it took for me to put her back in her mother’s arms. A nice set of lungs that one has.”
Yusuf smiles at the joy in Nicolò’s voice. “A miraculous baby, on Christmas Eve. I trust this lady has a husband?”
Nicolò chuckles as he starts to unload the contents of his leather bag. “Yes, he arrived shortly after the baby was born. He’s a baker and he gave me this,” he says, showing Yusuf a small loaf of sweet bread. Yusuf can see dried raisins and candied oranges mixed in the dough. It smells like lemon zest and he feels his stomach rumble. “He had no coin to pay me.”
“As if you would accept it, even if he did,” Yusuf says gracefully, turning his attention back to the stew. “This should be done in a few minutes. Do you want to wash up before eating?”
Unlike Yusuf, Nicolò doesn’t seem so affected by the cold water when he washes up his face, but then, Nicolò’s body always runs hot, something that Yusuf has always taken advantage of and plans to take advantage of again later, if he has the chance. Neither of them has to wake up early tomorrow.
Once the whole kitchen smells of garlic and bay leaves, the stew is done and Nicolò makes Yusuf sit while he brings the steaming pot to the table. “You cooked, so let me do this,” he says and Yusuf shrugs, digging into the stew with a piece of bread.
He feels his mouth water at the sight of the thick gravy soaking up the dough but stops right before taking the first bite. He looks up, and notices Nicolò has his head bowed, eyes closed in prayer. Something twists inside Yusuf’s chest, and he feels his face heat up. Silently, he says a prayer of his own. Nicolò has already finished when Yusuf looks up again, and he offers Yusuf a smile.
They tell each other about their day as they eat the stew and drink the mulled wine. Nicolò talks lively about the people he helped, and sombrely about those he could not. Yusuf watches him in silence, but he knows Nicolò can read every emotion in his eyes, in his face, in the deep set of his shoulders. Nicolò inquires him about his job in return, about the brothers and his co-workers, he asks Yusuf what made him happy that day.
He does not ask about what made Yusuf sad, because he already knows. He knows that as Yusuf walks home, he looks at the deep blue sea and he wonders, he hopes, and he despairs all the same.
They clean everything up before retiring to the bedroom. Yusuf makes sure the door is properly bolted and that their swords are within arm’s reach. Nicolò has a book in his lap as Yusuf joins him in the bed.
At first, Yusuf thinks it’s a hymnal, but soon he recognises it as poetry. Nicolò puts the book aside before Yusuf has a chance to read a verse, and he snuggles closer to him. Yusuf breathes, warm and pleased, and he wraps an arm around Nicolò’s shoulders, but soon the silence between them starts to bother Yusuf in a way it usually does not. He muses what he can say to make the silence bearable when the bells of a nearby church strike midnight.
“I could say a prayer, maybe,” Yusuf murmurs, more to himself, but Nicolò shifts in his arms and looks up expectantly. Unlike Yusuf, he never stopped praying, though he has forsaken lent as much as Yusuf has forsaken fasting. In matters of faith, they loved differently, which does not mean they could not make an effort if they wished to. “For the little one you delivered?”
Nicolò’s face brightens up and he nods, a smile tugging the corner of his lips. Yusuf smiles back and says a short prayer, asking for blessings upon a child he has never met and, before he finishes, he says another one. A prayer for a sister he thinks is forever lost and for the one he hopes will find her way back to them. They both stay silent as Yusuf finishes, and he feels the heaviness of a long workday finally catching up with him. In the spirit of the occasion, maybe he should say a prayer before sleeping, Yusuf thinks and immediately snickers despite himself.
“What’s wrong?” Nicolò asks, voice thick with sleep.
“Nothing,” Yusuf says, but relents when Nicolò keeps staring at him. “I just thought how absurd it is the prayer for before sleeping: Allahumma bismika amutu wa ahya. It feels a bit absurd, for me at least.”
“O Allah, with Your Name will I die and rise?” Nicolò recites with a frown. “That’s not absurd. I shall pray this for you, then, my love. I will not dismiss any assistance, divine or not, to be certain you will not be taken from me.”
Yusuf ducks his head so he can kiss the tip of Nicolò’s nose. Is not what he really wants to do. He wants to aim lower, wants to kiss Nicolò’s lips and to suck on his tongue, but he does not dare. Not now. He can tell Nicolò is not done yet and surely soon enough his heart sighs and moves from his spot in Yusuf’s chest.
“I have a gift for you,” Nicolò declares, reaching for his leather bag hanging by the side of the bed. “I did not know if that would be any good, but I thought it was worth a try.” He pulls out a piece of paper and does not hesitate as he hands it to Yusuf. “I have been sending letters to ports in Tripoli, Mahdia, Acre, Messina, Thasos, Alexandria, Constantinople... just in case that maybe-”
The paper looks worn out and well-read and Yusuf’s hands are shaking as he unfolds it. He takes in a sharp breath of cold air and feels the corner of his eyes stung as he reads the words in calligraphy he knows all too well.
Still searching.
You two stay put. Stay safe.
I will come to you soon.
A.
“So?” As soon as Joe stopped talking, Nile turned to Andy, her voice eager. “Did you come back?”
Everyone at the table looked at their boss expectantly, but she didn’t reply right away. By her side, Joe noticed Quỳnh hadn’t said a word during the whole story, but she didn’t look upset, and so he breathed in relief, hoping that particular memory had brought her some peace of mind. They missed her, dearly, deeply. They never stopped.
“Of course I found them,” said Andy, a smirk in her eyes. “I arrived exactly twelve days later, in the middle of the night and found these two fucking like rabbits. And this one here,” she pointed at Nicky. “... had the nerve to say he missed me.”
Nicky didn’t blush as everyone around the table shared a laugh at his expense, but Joe could tell he was embarrassed by the way he wiggled his eyebrows. Still, he knew neither of them was taking offence. If Joe’s memory serves, Andromache did indeed find them naked in bed, but he’s almost sure no lovemaking had been interrupted. He felt something warm spreading inside his chest as he noticed Quỳnh’s face at that particular turn of the conversation. Her eyes glinting with mischief. She must be remembering all the times she had found him and Nicolò in some equally compromising position.
Looking away, Joe noticed Nile wasn’t laughing along with Booker and Andy, instead she had a concentrated look, as if she was doing a complicated math equation in her head. Joe was curious for a second, until Nile’s face lit up and she squealed in delight.
“Oh my God,” she said, turning to Andy again. “Did you arrive at Epiphany? Like the Magi?”
Joe glanced at Nicky, and of course, he was smiling proudly at their little sister. “Yes,” Nicky said as he reached for the bottle of wine. “She did.”
“I didn’t bring any presents, though,” Andy shrugged and accepted when Nicky offered to fill up her glass.
“No,” Nicky said with kindness, looking at Joe across the table. Joe winked back at him. “You brought something better.”
“You brought yourself,” added Quỳnh, raising her glass.
Joe smiled. He would drink to that.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologise for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
Under One Small Star
- Wisława Szymborska