please call me by your name

We arrived at the Rome terminus around [-]pm on Wednesday evening.The air was cloudy and stuffy, as if a storm had come and gone without the humidity lingering.With dusk less than an hour away, street lamps shone through thick halos, and the illuminated shop frontages seemed immersed in shimmering colors of their own creation.Moisture clings to everyone's forehead and cheeks.I want to touch his face.Knowing that unless there's air conditioning, I'm not going to be comfortable after a shower, but I can't wait to get to the hotel, shower, and throw myself into bed.But I also love the laziness in this city, like the tired and swaying arms of a lover on your shoulders.

Maybe we'll have a balcony.I really want a balcony.Sitting on the cool marble steps of the balcony, watching the sunset in Rome.mineral water.or beer.There are also small snacks.My father booked us one of the most luxurious hotels in Rome.

Oliver wants to take the first taxi.I want to take the bus.I want to take a crowded bus.I wanted to step into the bus, squeeze into the sweaty crowd, and let him charge after me.Not long after jumping on the bus, we decided to get off.It's horrible, we joke.I turned around and walked out of the car door, passing the people who came in.These angry passengers rushing home don't understand what we're trying to do.I even stepped on a woman's foot. "He didn't even apologize!" The woman lowered her voice and said to the people around her who just squeezed into the bus and refused to let us squeeze out.

Finally, we hailed a taxi.As soon as he heard the name of the hotel where he was staying and heard us talking in English, the taxi driver turned a few inexplicable turns. "There's no need to take so many shortcuts, we're not in a hurry!" I said in Roman dialect.

It was nice that the two adjoining bedrooms were big enough that we each had a balcony and a window.Open the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the shining domes of countless churches against the setting sun are reflected in the endless vista below our feet.We were sent a bouquet of flowers and a whole pot of fruit with an accompanying note from Oliver's Italian publisher: Please come to the bookshop around eight-thirty.Take your manuscript with you.There is an author presentation tonight.we will wait for you.

We didn't have any plans other than dinner and shopping afterwards. "I'm also invited?" I asked a little uncomfortably. "Now I invite you," he replied.

We fiddled with the bowl of fruit next to the TV and peeled each other's figs.

He said he was going to take a shower.I watched him take off his clothes, and immediately took off his clothes. "It'll be fine in a minute," I said when the contact was made, because I liked the wetness of his body. "I wish you didn't have to take a shower." His smell reminded me of Marcia's.On days when there is no wind at the seaside and only the original dead white smell of scorching sand can be smelled, Maqia always seems to exude the smell of salt water by the sea.I love the curves in his arms, shoulders, back.These are still pretty new to me. "If we lie down now, the book launch will be ruined," he said.

These words, spoken at the zenith of happiness that no one seems to be able to take from us, take me back to this hotel room, to this damp Assumption evening in the real world, naked, with our arms leaning against each other. On the window sill, overlooking the unbearably hot Roman evening, the two of them had the dull smell of the train going south.On the train, I slept next to him with my head against his head in full view of the other passengers, as the train was probably approaching Naples.Leaning out into the evening air, I know this might be our one and only chance, but I can't convince myself.He must have thought the same thing while gazing at the beautiful scenery of the city, side by side, smoking, eating figs, each wanting to do something to mark this moment, so I gave in to the impulse that seemed so natural at the time... and suddenly A whim: we can start, but never end.Then we shower and head out the door, and it feels like two bare, live wires that spark when they lightly touch each other.Cupid is everywhere in Rome because we clipped one of his wings and forced him to fly in circles.

①Ascension Day (ferragosto): An Italian festival celebrated on August [-]th. It was originally a day to celebrate the end of midsummer and busy farming. Later, the Roman Catholic Church used this day as the Assumption Day.Usually there will be a long holiday of about two weeks to one month before and after this festival. Italians use this time to go on vacation, which is the most sparsely populated time of the year in Rome.

We never took a shower together.Not even sharing the bathroom at the same time. "Don't rush, I want to see." What I saw made me feel pity for him, for his body, for his life, and all aspects of him suddenly seemed weak and vulnerable. "Our bodies don't have secrets anymore," I said as I sat down when it was my turn.He jumped into the tub and was about to turn on the shower. "I want you to see mine," I said.But he goes one step further.He stepped out of the bathtub, kissed my mouth, massaged my lower abdomen with his palms, and witnessed the whole process.

I wish there were no secrets between us, no curtains, nothing.It wasn't clear to me then that if I enjoy the honesty that brings us closer each time we promise each other that "my body is your body," it's also because I also appreciate the importance The flames of shame rekindled unexpectedly.This firelight casts a ray of light just where I would rather keep it dark.Shame follows a moment of intimacy.Once obscenity is exhausted, and our bodies can no longer play tricks, can intimacy last?

I forgot I asked this question, like I'm not sure I can answer it now.Are we paying the wrong price for the joy of intimacy?

Or that intimacy is always desirable no matter where it is found, how it is obtained, or how it is paid for (legal or not, secret or public)?

I just know that I have nothing to hide from him.This moment is the freest and safest time of my life.

We were alone for three days, we didn't know anyone in this city, I could be anyone, say anything, do anything.I felt like a war criminal, freed by the invading army and sent home; no forms to fill out, no briefings, no questioning.No busses, no checkpoints, no queues for clean clothes—just walk.

We shower, we wear each other's clothes.We wear each other's underwear.This is my idea.

Perhaps all this could bring him back to his youthful stupidity.

Or many years ago, he had already been "there", and this time he just stopped for a while on the way back to his hometown.

Maybe he was accommodating me, observing me.

Maybe he'd never done this with anyone else, and I came at the right time.

He takes his manuscript, his sunglasses, and we close the hotel room door.Like two live wires.We step out of the elevator doors.Put a big smile on everyone.To hotel staff.To the florist on the street.To the girl at the kiosk.

You smile and the world smiles back. "Oliver, I'm so happy," I said.

He looked at me in surprise. "You're just horny."

"No, it's happiness."

On the way, we saw a busker playing Dante in a red robe.He had an exaggerated aquiline nose, and a face delineated with the most contemptuous expression of displeasure.The red toga, red cloche hat, and thick wooden-framed eyes gave his already stern face the shriveled look of a stubborn confessor.A crowd gathered around the great bard, who stood motionless on the pavement, his arms proudly folded, his whole body erect, as if waiting for Virgil or a delayed bus to arrive.When the traveler throws his money into a hollowed-out ancient book, he imitates Dante's bewitched manner of watching Beatrice strolling across the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, stretching his cobra-like neck like Like a fire-breathing street performer, about to speak in a groaning voice:

Gurido, vorrreichetue Lapoedio

Guido, I wish the mighty magic to lead

fossimopresiperincantamento,

Rapo and you and me, board

emessiad unvascel, ch'adognivento

A fantastic ship.its magic sailor

permare and assea volervastroamio.

To fly with the wind, to follow our thoughts.

②Beatrice Portinarl (Beatrice Portinarl): Florentine, Italy.When Dante met her at a banquet at the age of nine, he was deeply attracted. Although he never got married, his love for her lasted a lifetime.She was Dante's main source of inspiration for "La Vita Nuova" (La Vita Nuova), and also appeared in the last "Paradise" (Paradise) of "Divine Comedy", serving as Dante's guide.

How apt, I thought.Oliver, I want you and me and all the people we hold dear to live in our home forever. …

After reciting the verse in a low voice, Dante standing on the street returned to his original too conspicuous and secluded posture until another passenger dropped in money.

Eio, quando'isuobraccioamedistese,

As soon as he touches me, I can no longer avoid

ficcaIiocchiperlocottoaspetto,

My eyes can only stare at his scorched and withered face,

siche'lvisoabbrruscitonondifese

until beneath the wounded mask

laconoscenzasiiaalmio'ntelltto;

Outlines in memory emerged.

echinandolamanoalasuafaccia,

I reached for his face,

rispuosi: "Sietevoiqui, ser Brunetto?"

And replied: "Mr. Brunieto, are you here?"

The same contemptuous expression.The same grin.The crowd dispersed.No one seems to recognize the verse No. 15 of "Inferno", which describes Dante's encounter with his teacher Brunetto Latini.The two Americans finally took out a few coins from their backpacks and threw them at Dante.Dante gave the same sullen and annoyed stare:

Mathecia frega, checia importa,

Where do we care, why should we care,

Sel'ostearvinociamessol'acqua:

Did the shopkeeper mix our wine with water?

enoijedimo, enoijefamo,

We just tell him, we just say:

"ciaimessol'acqua

"You mixed with water,

Enuntepagamo. "

We don't pay. "

③ Brunetto Latini (BrunettaL.atini, 1220-1294): Italian philosopher, scholar, and statesman.

Oliver didn't understand why the crowd burst into laughter at the helpless tourists.That's because Dante recited the Roman drinking song, which isn't funny unless you know that.

I said I would take him to take a shortcut to the bookstore.He said he didn't care about taking long detours: there is nothing wrong with taking long detours, so what's the rush?My idea is better.Oliver seemed tense and insistent. "Is there anything I should know?" I finally asked him.I thought it was a decent thing to do, to give him a chance to talk about his troubles.Is there anything that makes him uncomfortable?Something to do with his publisher?or someone else?Because I was there?If you prefer to go by yourself, I'll walk around by myself.I suddenly thought what was bothering him.I am the professor's son, a small follower.

"That's not the case at all, goose."

"Then why?"

He walked with one arm around my waist.

"I don't want anything to change or happen between us tonight."

"Who is the goose?"

He stared at me for a long time.

We decided to go my way, from Piazza Palzzo Montecitorio to Corso.Then go along Besiana Road (via Belsiana). "It started around here," I said.

"what?"

"that matter."

"So you want to come here?"

"With you."

I told him about that.Three years ago, some young cyclist, perhaps a grocer's helper or errand runner, was riding down the narrow road in his apron, and he stared straight into my face, and I didn't smile, with a troubled expression. Stare back at him until he brushes past me.Then I did something I always wish someone else would do in this situation.I waited a few seconds, then turned around.He did exactly the same thing.My tutor didn't teach me how to hook up with strangers, and he obviously did.He quickly turned his head around and caught up with me on a bicycle, spit out a few insignificant words, and wanted to talk about something light.How difficult it was for him.Question, question, question—I didn't even say a "yes" or a "no" just to keep the conversation going.He shook my hand, but that was obviously just an excuse to hold my hand.Then he put an arm around me and hugged me tightly, as if we were sharing a joke that brought us closer together.Ask if I want to go to a nearby movie theater together?I shake my head.Asked me if I wanted to go into the shop with him - the boss would probably be gone by this time of evening.I shook my head again.are you shyI nod.He never let go of my hand, with a gracious and forgiving smile, squeezed my hand, hugged my shoulders, rubbed the back of my neck, as if he had given up but still didn't want to stop. "Why not?" he continued.I might be able to (easily) accept it, but I don't.

"I've turned down a lot of people. Never courted anyone."

"You chased me."

"You made me chase."

Via Frattina, via Borgognona, via Condotti, viadelleCarrozze, dellsCrote, ariaVittoria. I love each of these roads. Walking near the bookstore, Oliver told me to keep going and he wanted to make a local call. He could have called at the hotel. Maybe he needed privacy. I kept walking and stopped at a bar to buy Smoke. The bookstore has large glass doors, and two clay busts of Rome rest on plinths that look like ancient stumps. I tense up when I arrive. The store is packed, and through the thick glass doors with bronze carvings, I see many people I was eating mini cakes inside. Seeing me looking into the store, the people inside motioned for me to go in. I shook my head, and hesitantly indicated with my index finger that I was waiting for someone who was on the way and was coming soon. A seemingly The owner or helper, like the club manager, didn't come out to the sidewalk, but stretched his arms against the two glass doors and almost ordered me to go in. "Come, here, come in!" His shirt sleeve Rolled neatly to the shoulders. The recitation has not yet started, but the bookstore is full of people, everyone is smoking, chatting loudly, flipping through new books, and there is a small plastic cup in their hand, which contains a drink that looks like Scotch whiskey A group of women with their bare elbows leaning against the railing of the upstairs hallway. I recognized the author immediately. He was the one who signed for Marcia and me in his collection of poems "Just Say It's Love". Shaking hands with a few people.

When he came up to me, I couldn't resist reaching out to shake his hand and telling him how much I enjoyed reading his poems.How could I have read the books that haven't been published yet?Others overheard his question.They want to throw me out of the bookstore as a liar?

"I bought it at the bookstore in City B a few weeks ago, and you kindly signed it for me."

He remembered that night. "This is the real fan!" he added aloud so that the others could hear, and they all turned around. "Probably not a book fan. At his age, a groupie would be more appropriate," added an elderly woman; her goiter and gaudy colors made her look like a toucan.

"Which poem do you like best?"

"Alfredo, don't act like an oral exam teacher." A woman in her thirties mocked.

“I just want to know which poem is his favorite. It’s okay to ask, right?” he grumbles, a vibrato of mock exasperation in his voice.

I once thought that the woman who stood in for me had saved me.I was wrong.

"Tell me, which one?"

"The poem that compares life to St. Clement's."

"It's the poem that compares love to St. Clement's," he corrected me, as if contemplating the depth of the two statements. "You like "Saint Clement's Syndrome"..." The poet stared at me. "why?"

"Jesus, will you spare the poor boy? Come here." Interrupted another woman who overheard my other advocate.She took my hand. "I'll take you to eat so you can stay away from this monster whose pride is as big as his feet. Did you see how big his feet are? Alfredo, you really should do something about your shoes. ’ she said from the other end of the crowded bookstore.

"My shoes? What's wrong with my shoes?" asked the poet.

"Too, big, la. Don't you think it looks big?" the woman asked me. "A poet cannot have such big feet."

"Spare my foot."

Another uttered words of sympathy. "Don't make fun of his feet, Lucia. His feet are all right."

"A pair of beggar's feet. I've been barefoot all my life, but I still buy shoes one size larger, lest my feet grow again before the next Christmas!" She plays a resentful or abandoned shrew.

But I didn't let go of her hand.She didn't let go of me either.Urban partnership.What a woman's hand, especially when you know nothing about her.Let's just call it love, I think.And the tanned arms and elbows of the women looking down from the corridor.Let's just say it's love.

The owner of the bookstore interrupted this seemingly pre-arranged husband and wife quarrel. "Just call it love!" he yelled.Everyone laughed.We don't know whether the laughter is a sign of the couple's relief that the argument has stopped, or the use of the phrase "let's say it's love," implying "if it's love, then..."

Everyone also understood that this was the signal to start the recital, and they all found a comfortable corner or a wall to lean against.Our place is the best, just on the spiral staircase, sitting on one side, still holding hands.The publisher is about to introduce the poet, the door creaks open and Oliver pushes his way, accompanied by two babes who may be fashion models or film actresses.They seemed to be abducted by Oliver on the way, and he planned to give one to him and one to me.Let's just say it's love.

"Oliver! Here you are!" cried the publisher, raising his glass of whiskey. "welcome."

Everyone turned away.

"The youngest and most talented American philosopher! Accompanied by my lovely daughters. Without them, 'Just Say It's Love' would not have been possible."

The poet agrees.His wife turned to me and whispered, "Aren't they beautiful?" The publisher came down the book ladder and hugged Oliver.He took the large x-ray envelope that Oliver had put in the manuscript. "The manuscript?" Oliver replied, "Yes." The publisher gave him tonight's book in exchange. "You gave me a copy." But Oliver complimented the cover politely, then looked around and finally saw me sitting next to Lucia.He came up to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and leaned in to kiss her.She looks at me, at Oliver, and assesses the situation: "Oliver, you're so slutty."

"Let's say it's love," he replied, showing the book, as if to say: Whatever he does in his life has been written in her husband's book, so it's quite permissible.

"Say hell."

I can't tell if Lucia says he's slutty because of the two beautiful babes he's hanging out with, or because of me.Or both.

Oliver introduced me to two girls.Evidently he knew them well, and they both cared about him.One of them asked: "Are you a friend of Oliver's? He mentioned you."

"Tell me?"

"Good words."

At this time, I was standing with the poet's wife, and the girl was leaning against the wall next to me. "He's never going to let go of my hand, is he?" Lucia seemed to be saying to a third party who wasn't there.Maybe she wanted two beautiful babies to notice.

I didn't want to let go of her hand right away, but I knew I had to.So I took her palm, brought it to my lips, kissed the side of it, and let go.I felt as if I had her all afternoon and now I was letting her go back to my husband, like letting go of a bird with a broken wing that took a long time to heal.

"Call it love," she said, shaking her head in mock reproach. "He's as slutty as the others, just cuter. I'll leave him to you."

One of the girls let out a forced giggle. "Let's see what we can do with him."

I felt like I was in heaven.

She knows my name.Her name is Amanda.Her sister's name was Adele. "There's a third," Amanda said, downplaying the numbers. "She should have arrived."

The poet cleared his throat and delivered a very common thank-you: last but not least, in his opinion, Lucia.Why could she bear him?Why on earth could she do it?The wife smiled lovingly at the poet and hissed at the same time.

"Because of his shoes," he said.

"Yes."

"Go on, Alfredo," said the toucan-looking woman.

"Let's just say it's love. "Just Say It's Love" is a collection of poems based on my experience of teaching Dante in Thailand for a season. As you all know, before I went to Thailand, I loved it so much. And then immediately hated it. Let me put it another way: I hated it when I went and loved it when I left." Laughter.Drinks are passed around.

"In Bangkok, I kept thinking about Rome. What else could I think about? Thinking about this little bookstore by the side of the road, thinking about the street just before sunset, thinking about Easter and the church bells on rainy days, the sound echoed in Bangkok, I almost I'm going to cry. Lucia, Lucia, Lucia, you know how much I think in these days when I feel more empty than Ovid in exile You, why don't you say no? I was a fool when I left, and I didn't come back smarter. Everyone in Thailand is beautiful. When you have a little drink and want to touch the first stranger who comes towards you Well, loneliness is a cruel thing. The people there are beautiful, but the smiles are priced in wine." He paused, as if to collect his thoughts. "I wrote these into a poem called 'Sorrow'."

④ "Tristia" (Tristia): After Ovid was exiled, the poem completed in AD [-] was also called "Tristia".

Just reciting "Sorrow" took almost 10 minutes.applause.One of the publisher's daughters used the word "strong". "Extraordinary." The toucan-like woman turned to face another woman who had been nodding to almost every syllable the poet said just now, and now kept repeating "extraordinary".The poet stepped off the stage, drank a glass of water, and held his breath for a moment to get rid of the hiccup.I mistook his hiccups for suppressed sobs.The poet searches every pocket of his casual coat, but finds nothing. He clamps his index and middle fingers, waving them around his mouth, signals to the bookstore owner that he wants to smoke, and maybe socializes for a few minutes. The "Super Great" woman understood his signal and immediately took out the cigarette case.

"I can't sleep tonight, and that's what poetry brings," she said, blaming his poetry for a night of insomnia that was sure to be throbbing.

Everyone was sweating, and the warm and humid air inside and outside the bookstore was unbearably sticky.

"For God's sake, open the door!" the poet shouted to the bookstore owner. "We're suffocating." Mr. Van Ga took out the wedge-shaped wooden doorstop, opened the door, and pushed it between the wall and the bronze door frame.

"Is it better?" He asked respectfully.

"No. But at least we know the door is open."

Oliver looked at me, meaning: like it?I shrugged, trying to judge later.But I'm not honest; I like it a lot.

Maybe I like this night better.I'm excited about everything tonight.Every glance I met was like a compliment, or an inquiry, a promise.hovering in the mid-air between me and the world around me.I felt electrocuted—from the banter, from the sarcasm, from the look, from the smile that seemed to rejoice in my presence, and from the cheerful air in the store.The glass doors, the miniature cakes, the plastic cups filled with gold-coloured Scotch whiskey, the rolled-up sleeves of Mr. Vangar, the poet, the spiral staircase where we sat with our pretty sisters, all enhanced by the pleasant atmosphere of the store , emitting a radiance that is both charming and exciting.

I envy these lives and think back to my parents' total abstinence, their empty meal drudgery.The dollhouse life we ​​lived in the dollhouse, and my senior years looming in the future.Compared with this, everything is like child's play.Why go to America a year later if I can spend the rest of the four years in just the same ease, coming to recitals like this, sitting and talking like some people do?There is more to learn from this crowded little bookstore than from any large institution across the Atlantic.

An older man with a big shaggy beard and a Falstaff ⑤ belly brought me a glass of whiskey.

⑤ Sir John Falstaff (SirJohn Falstaff): Shakespeare's fictional character, appearing in plays such as "Henry IV" and "The Merry Wives of Windsor".Falstaff has become synonymous with bloated blowhard and foodie.

"Here."

"For me?"

"Of course it's for you. Do you like the poems?"

"Love it very much." For some reason, I said trying to look sarcastic and insincere.

"I'm his godfather, and I respect your opinion." He seemed to see through my initial bluff and didn't pursue it any further. "But I respect your youth more."

"I assure you, in a few years, there will be very little youth left." I tried my best to pretend to be sophisticated, to know myself, and to put on a sarcastic attitude of disillusionment with reality.

"Yes, but I won't be able to witness it when the time comes."

Is he teasing me?

"Take it." He handed me the plastic cup.I hesitated before accepting.It was the same brand of whiskey that my father drank at home.

Lucia, who heard the conversation, said: "After all, one more or one less whiskey won't make you any less slutty than you are now.

"I wish I was loose." I left my elders and turned to her.

"What? Is there anything lacking in your life?"

"What is lacking in my life?" I wanted to say everything, but changed my mind. "Friends, everyone here seems to know each other well. I wish I had friends like you have, friends like you."

"You'll have a lot of time cultivating friendships like this. Can friends save you from debauchery?"

That word kept coming, as if to accuse me of some gravely ugly flaw in my character.

"I want to have a friend that I never lose."

She looked at me with a thoughtful smile.

"My dear friend, you speak very profoundly. Tonight we shall discuss only short poems."

She looks at me. "I pity you." With a feeling of sadness and attachment, she touched my face with her palm, as if I were her child.

That's what I like too.

"You're too young to understand what I'm saying now, but soon, someday, I hope we'll have a chance to talk again and see if I'm lenient enough to take back the word I used tonight. Just kidding, I was just kidding." She kissed me on the cheek.

What a world.She's twice my age, but I could make love to her and cry with her right now.

"Should we drink a toast?" someone shouted from the other corner of the store.

There was a chaotic sound.

Then, here comes.A hand on my shoulder.It's Amanda.Another hand wraps around my waist.Oh, the feeling of this hand is so familiar to me.I hope this hand won't let go of me tonight.I adore every finger on that hand, every nail you chew on every finger, my dear, dear Oliver—don't let me go yet because I want your hand there.A shiver ran down my spine.

"I'm Ada," someone said almost apologetically, as if realizing she'd taken too long to get to our end of the store, and now to make it up to everyone in our corner of the store, She was the Ada everyone was talking about.The hoarseness and sass in her voice, or the way she said "Ida" slowly, or the way she seemed to take everything (book launches, quotes, even friendships) for granted, let me know tonight that I really Step into a world of enchantment.

I have never traveled in this world.But I love this world.Once I learn how to speak the language of the world, I will love it even more—because it is my language, a way of speaking that sneaks away my deepest longings with banter.Not because it's safer to put a smile on what we fear to scare, but because the twists and turns of desire, all the twists and turns of desire in this new world I've stepped into, can only be conveyed through play.

Like the city itself, everyone here has something to spare for life, and assumes everyone else wants to too.I aspire to be like them.

The bookstore owner rang the bell next to the radio, and everyone fell silent.

The poet said, "I wasn't going to read this poem tonight, but because someone..." (Come on, he changed his tone.) "Because someone mentioned this poem, I can't help it anymore The poem is called "Saint Clement's Syndrome." I must admit—I mean, if a poet could say something like that, it's my favorite poem." I found out later that he I never call myself a poet, or say that my work is poetry. "Because this one was the hardest. Because this poem made me very, very homesick. Because this poem saved me in Thailand. Because this poem explained my whole life to me. I counted my days , night, night, never forget St. Clement. The idea of ​​having to go back to Rome before finishing this long poem scares me more than being stuck in Bangkok airport for a week. However, I am in Rome, at a distance from St. I lived less than [-] meters from the Clement Church and put the finishing touches on this poem. The irony is that I started writing this poem when I was in Bangkok, I can’t remember how long ago, because it felt like Rome was as far away as the Milky Way poetic."

Listening to him read this long poem, I thought: Unlike him, I have always managed to avoid counting the days.We're leaving in three days, and after that, whatever Oliver and I have had is bound to disappear.We discussed meeting in America, we discussed writing letters or calling, but the whole thing had a mysterious, surreal air that we both kept deliberately opaque.Not because we want things to come to us out of the blue, okay