The Taming of Frankie Carrozza

The Hearsay of Francesco

One thing for certain about Frankie Carrozza was this: ask anyone about the boy and you would never get the same description twice.
Hearsay of dangerous escapades that he had (allegedly) found himself entangled in over summer intermission strewed across Eton. They arrived like carrier pigeons, swooping in to perch on the sill of one house to proclaim its little mouth-watering morsel of gossip before flying off to ledges elsewhere, suspiciously swelling from exuberant exaggeration the further they travelled between each house.
'Last I heard, Carrozza was planning to circumnavigate the world inside sixty-nine days!' Charlie overheard Ike Bevers tweet in the cafe on Monday morning. 'Apparently, he got a scar on his umbilicus from fending off a polar bear in Antarctica. Word in Westbury is that he now wears a necklace made of teeth and claws.'
'Don't be an ignoramus, Ike. That's not it at all,' his friend replied as they passed Charlie and Iggy eating jambons outside. 'What I heard was that he had somehow gotten involved in pseudoscience and spent his summer chasing evidence of the afterlife with a group of junior doctors at Royal Berkshire Hospital.'
'No, apparently that was Trevor Hamilton,' interjected their third amigo. 'Speaking of the devil, you know how there are supposed to be ties between Hamilton and Carrozza and the Cambridge Five? Rumour has it that Carrozza had recruited some old pals to form a ring of elite spies known as the Eton Four. They were enlisted to demolish the Soviet Union so as to finally put an end to the second Cold War. Now, I don't think he mustered anyone from the Nomad Lads or the Mischief Men since there were two boys and two girls, but I did catch whispers of four cryptonyms: Crown, Skull, Rose, and Bethlehem.'
'Nonsense! That was the Revellers, and they'd been disbanded aeons ago,' stated the fourth friend. 'Before you start, I won't condone naysayers. See, I thought he was touring music circuits for most of the season—something to do with a girl in an Indian headdress.'
'This year's bullshit batch of tittle-tattle is a little bit wilted compared to last year's hoard of rip-roaring adventures,' Charlie murmured to Iggy as they followed them to college, recalling the one that involved Frankie's father, who was either a Lord Chancellor, a member of the Queen's Court, the 15th Earl of Berkshire, or all of the above. Reportedly, the pair had been kidnapped by a band of cannibalistic pirates off the coast of Arcadia, consequently forcing them to fence their way to safety. This particular event in the ongoing series of Frankie's fantastical affairs had reinforced the most prominent rumour from the term before: when he and his father had trained with Japanese Yamabushi masters high up in the mountains of the Kumano Region. 'I'm not convinced,' he continued, 'but that obviously doesn't make me a cut above the rest as it's mad that anybody believes a single word that comes out of the mouths of these gullible and docile morons. Is it that they're so infatuated that they've been duped into fantasies where their variant of him lives a life just teeming with extraordinary exploits? What is it about him that makes the alternative so unlikely? God forbid that he spent these last few months being bored out of his mind inside some vineyard villa in Dordogne rather than busting a famous kingpin. I'll tell you what, his feet will never be wet so long as their hair is at hand.'
'According to Harry Tomlinson,' said Iggy, who'd clearly not been listening to a single word Charlie had said, 'Frankie has a new anarchist tattoo near his ... ahem ... gentleman grove.'
'I'll believe it when I see it, otherwise, for now, it's just as much a shower of shi—'
'It is not, Cha-Cha!' Iggy cried, as though he had, once again, uttered something condemnable as witchcraft. Ignoring Charlie's wince at a horrendous nickname used as a verbal slap, Perkins proceeded, 'Everyone is talking about it, mon cher. Tomlinson swears he seen a glimpse of it, and he sleeps in the room right next to a friend of Frankie's friend—well, if he happened to be two floor above, too, he would.'
Chance snorted. 'How in God's name could I possibly debunk such concrete proof?'
'It is solid evidence!' Iggy insisted.
'It's questionable word of mouth at best!' As students of fluctuating shapes and sizes serpentined around them, Charlie suddenly gasped. 'I can't believe you've got me talking about that boy at length again! I've heard his name being said more times than my own mother has ever called mine!'
Iggy folded his arms. 'Judging your relationship with Viv, I'm not so sure she even knows what yours is any more.'
'Maybe so, maybe so.' Charlie swung his bag over a shoulder and reconvened their trek. 'Let them propagate the myths, the legends, the folklore of Frankie Carrozza. It's a rousing idea, that a pathfinder could exist in this day and age—a descendant of Hercules, a child of Olympus, the blood of Gideon, the Second Coming of Achilles—who would complete an epic odyssey as Odysseus once did. Alas, but there are no sparks of divinity in our blood these days.'
'Ah! What a contradiction you are, Charles: a sceptical dreamer.' A dainty hand swept through fair hair that had been shaved short at the hands of a scissor-happy hairdresser, twiddling absent-mindedly by his chin to feel for the ghost of the tresses that he'd grown to his shoulders the year previous. 'What on earth are you doing? People are staring, you buffoon!'
'Evidently, the point of this uniform is to produce an ideal image of a pupil worthy of one day running the British empire, but I don't think it's as innocent as it appears,' said Charlie, scuffing his black leather shoes on the kerb to create signs of wear so that they didn't shine so painfully bright. 'Aside from making us resemble a colony of waddling penguins, I suspect its everyday use is to contain us like cages do an animal.'
They were required to purchase the following: a black tailcoat, a black v-necked pullover, a waistcoat, white cotton school shirts with detached collars, pinstriped trousers, front and back collar studs, and a white disposable tie. A black overcoat that was long enough to cover tails, a pair of gloves, and a navy or black scarf were optional. For athletic pursuits, the following were essential: an Eton College rain jacket, tracksuit bottoms, two reversible games shirts, two outdoor games shorts, two indoor games shorts, two sports polo shirts, three pairs of outdoor games socks, three indoor games socks, one pair of swim shorts, two Eton cricket shirts, one pair of Eton cricket trousers, and cricket protection. One Eton College kit bag, one pair of football/rugby boots, one pair of white indoor trainers, one pair of outdoor trainers, one pair of shin pads, one gum shield, rugby head and shoulder protection, squash goggles, and synthetic viscoelastic urethane polymer heel pads were also suggested. Formal wear: two pairs of smart trousers (grey flannel or chino), one blue blazer, a pullover, two smart shirts with collars attached, one tie, and one suit. Everything else was personal items and casual wear—jeans, shirts, additional pullovers, extra trainers, more boat shoes, pyjamas (or similar), a dressing gown, slippers, bath towels, toothbrush, nailbrush, nail scissors, hairbrush, comb, a clothes brush, cufflinks, shoe cleaning kit, coat hangers, and six handkerchiefs.
'Careful now,' droned Perkins. 'You're beginning to sound an awful lot like Hamilton.'
'There you are, Chance!'
Charlie snapped around to see Peter Gillespie, their house captain, march down the street towards them. Moving fast enough to knife through them for a shortcut, the rangy gentry swung a silver-topped cane to create a wide berth between himself and everyone else. Due to his checked spongebag trousers, his mottled-grey waistcoat mirroring underbelly, the ends of his rat-tail tailcoat, the winged collar and bowtie replacing whiskers, and a maroon peacoat acting as fur, Gillespie's resemblance to a stretched rodent—or an actor portraying one in a pantomime, at the very least—was stronger today than any other. As a result of Gillespie's Dickensian loathsomeness, the irreverence of the boys of Baldwin's Bec was a symptom of an ongoing cloak-and-dagger revolution against the Rat King. Although they often quarrelled amongst themselves, their rebellion against the Rat King and his mischief of prefects was where they stood stark and steadfast. If suspected by Gillespie of egging his windows, gluing his belongings, or greasing his floors, their mouths grew tighter than the lips of Heaven when questioned and they took his willingness to dole out corporal punishment on the chin and elsewhere. Despite being an ostentatious scion of old money that clogged thick like fat in his veins, to the boys in Baldwin's Bec, Peter Gillespie was merely a fat rat amongst the kittens.
The Rat King stopped in front of Charlie, rising above him like he'd stepped on a rake. With murky green eyes that not one of the literary greats could romanticise successfully, he sneered down the long length of his sharp nose to regard Charlie like something vile stuck to the bottom of his boot.
'What is it, Gillespie?' Charlie demanded impatiently. Bogs, he thought, eyeing his irises, almost feeling his legs slogging and sucking into muck bubbling up to his knees. Quagmires, swamps, marshes, moors, slugs, and brutal bowel movements.
'You will report to my study around teatime today to run a few errands for me,' he ordered.
'Will I?'
'You will.'
'Well, if it's on my way then no.'
'Do you honestly think it's acceptable to speak to your captain like that?' snapped the Rat King.
'Sorry, squeak, squeak, Gillespie. Is that better?'
'What did you just say?' Seething, Peter's grip tightened and twisted around his cane until it squelched. 'I've just about had it with you and the rest of those insubordinate little shi—'
'He said, "Tweet, tweet"!' Perkins answered swiftly, clinging to Charlie's shoulders like a gargoyle overhanging the Notre-Dame de Paris. 'The boy is bananas; he thinks he can talk to birds.'
'I'll have you for this, Chance! Mark my words, you'll rue this day!' the Rat King spat, jabbing his cane at him.
'Perhaps you will, and perhaps I will,' said Charlie. 'But you'll not have me doing chores for you.'
Gillespie swung the metallic lion atop the cane into his shin and agony exploded through the bone. Snake-like, he hissed, 'As you were!'
Once Charlie inhaled a ragged breath, Iggy clamped hands that were as cold and smooth as marble over his mouth and trailed him into a nearby alleyway.
'What has gotten into you? What were you thinking?' he demanded, as Charlie buckled against the cobbled wall to clutch his leg and spew profanities in French, Greek, Gaelic, Bulgarian, Dutch, Italian, Finnish, and Latin. 'Are you really that desperate to be bent over the birching block in the Library and have the arse flayed off you completely? Also, why is that pompous pillock trying to make you his fag? There hasn't been a case of fagging since Anderson caught a trunkless Ben Fagin teaching Elliot Winterbottom how to hold his breath underwater in the swimming pool.'
'That wasn't fagging, that was—oh, I see what you did there.' Charlie watched as Gillespie pranced villainously on down the road, imagining that the Rat King was rushing off to meet with the rest of Pop, where the prefectorial imposters would peel the flesh from their bodies like wet, dead skin to reveal furry forms hidden underneath. 'If I hadn't refused point-blank, he'd have monopolise it and I wouldn't have a free hour to piss in. You see, he reckons it was me who submitted The Rat King to the newsletter, which is making the rounds again now that someone keeps putting illustrations of it up on the walls in Baldwin's Bec.'
'But ... but you did submit that short story.'
'Yes, but that's beside the point.'
Giggling, Iggy said, 'It seems Venice has made quite the libertarian out of you.'
'Well, I did catch a showing of Death in Venice whilst in Venice at the Teatro La Fenice opera house.'
'If it's any consolation for your busted shin, Tom Roberts-True built a gigantic mousetrap in D&T and plans to put it in the Rat King's nest later tonight.'
Tears streaming down his face from waning pain and earnest laughter, Charlie's grin faltered like an unsticking poster corner. His balance neglected him as soon as he witnessed the Frankian apparition, causing him to stumble.
A passing waddle of penguins parted like a biblical retelling of Moses and the Red Sea. Unveiled behind his cigarette smoke in the centre of them, Frankie Carrozza paused—be it by chance or divinity—beneath a shaft of glorious sunlight, embellishing him like a gold spear hurled from Troy. Whilst his apostles ran amok around him, whacking each other with sticker albums and sketchpads, kicking a hacky sack about, and solving a Rubik's cube, a smirk spread his ruddy jaws at Charlie, jade-green eyes like soaked fields suggesting mischief and mirth.
'You alright?' Frankie chuckled. Gripping his bicep, he thrust up the fist. 'Go on, stick it to the Man!'
Eyebrows knitted and smiling tight-lipped, Carrozza nodded once queerly. Fluttering a slight wink, the gainly lad flashed another rosy-cheeked grin. Like a shepherd that had tamed the wolves, Frankie trailed behind his friends with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his shirt spilling out over the band of his trousers untidily. Glancing over his shoulder at Charlie, biting his tongue between his teeth to stifle a smirk, his expression suggested that he was sharing an in-joke that only they both knew of. He rotated his body around completely, walked backwards for a moment as he went, and then he was gobbled up from view by the corner of the alley and his rambunctious therapons, squawking around him like bickering magpies nesting on an English oak.
As desire throbbed in his belly to excite his shoulders, Charlie had an epiphany; Isaac Newton was struck by an apple, whereas Charlie Chance was knocked by a gaze. A bone-shattering, prickling, tingling sensation wrought through his spine like a bolt of lightning to render it limp. Flushed, he felt the true hotness of his blood press against his flesh to redden the marks of his youth even more as a rush like inspiration electrified his skin. A seraphic heat in his groin burned him for his heresy, and he endured something similar to a spiritual rebirth had by those who found our Lord Jesus Christ again. His tongue suddenly felt much too big for his mouth.
Even Dordogne would be much too dull, he thought, as he envisioned the boy in only a white fur coat, or stepping over a bear skin rug spread over his floors. Turning to his friend, Charlie said quietly, 'I couldn't help but overhear someone say that Carrozza had defended an entire village from gun-toting bandits and machete-wielding mercenaries that had come to satisfy their bloodlust in Nigeria.'
Iggy asked, 'Are your trousers much too tight all of a sudden, too?'