Our Young Man Read online

  “Yes, but Dalí’s paper was watermarked with an infinity symbol and was from a particular factory that went belly-up in 1980. There are tons of Dalí products out there—shirts, cognac bottles, gilt oyster knives, ashtrays for Air India—but they’re all authorized.”

  “How disgusting,” Guy murmured.

  Andrés took offense: “He’s a great Catalan artist and I only worked on lithos of his best work. The Great Masturbator, the Bullfight series, Cosmic Warrior, Caesar in Dalivision …”

  “Yes, of course,” Guy said, trying to soothe him.

  They went together to Lazlo’s office the next morning at ten. And the lawyer seemed charmed by them both, two young men so handsome and appealingly happy, at least on a better day. Lazlo asked them lots of questions and both he and Andrés took copious notes. Guy looked out the window at the crowds surging down Fifth Avenue, and it seemed unreal to him that they were all free and soon Andrés would be behind bars. It seemed an utterly arbitrary thing, that society would care so much about its precious property that it would punish a young man in the flower of his youth for stealing some of it. “Stealing” was a big word, since he was only copying an inferior hack who endlessly plagiarized himself and invited everyone else to join in. Even the experts would trip all over themselves trying to pinpoint the exact crime Andrés had committed. Dalí himself was dead or dying, as waxy as his absurd mustaches, and there were no pockets in the shroud, but if the heirs and lawyers were all that greedy, then Guy could pay them off. Surely no one cared about the integrity of this artist who had made a career of selling himself out. Dalí would probably have even been flattered that such a clever, handsome guy had bothered to copy his images so industriously. A copy of a fake by a fraud was surely a negligible sort of offense.

  Lazlo made them cups of espresso. The cups looked none too clean. He said something that suggested he, too, regarded Dalí as a charlatan, and Guy’s passionate young Colombian took offense, predictably. And of course it was immaterial the absolute quality of the work he’d plagiarized. “Victimless crime” were the words stuck in Guy’s head. The room smelled of coffee and Gitanes and Guy suspected the large panes of glass were slick with all these continental fumes.

  They hurried home with a new urgency and fell on each other, famished and frightened. Guy could taste the coffee in Andrés’s mouth. He admired his lean, muscled white ass as if he’d never seen it before, the play of muscles across it like summer lightning, except it was something humble and familiar, not cosmic but a companion, a friend, at once familiar and exciting. They were desperate and it occurred to Guy that the police could never come to arrest Andrés if Guy refused to answer the door, if they nailed it shut and fed only on each other, as white as lab mice. They were two solid men, each 150 or 160 pounds, over six feet tall, big beasts; they could afford to fast for days, weeks. Guy wanted to buy them just a month or two; when the police broke down the door they’d find them locked in each other’s arms, forming a rotting crab on the beach of a bed rich in waves of linen. They might be dead.

  “What if we just ran away?” Guy said. “There must be some drought-ridden farm near Cartagena where they’d never find us or some village in the Congo where the police would die of malaria. I don’t want to live long—just a while longer with you. And then when the police closed in on our African shack we could set it on fire and go up in flames.”

  Andrés started to speak and then sobs overtook him and he cried for half an hour on Guy’s chest. Something about his disarray, his vulnerability, excited Guy. The idea that this lithe, sinewy man was so wracked by sobs turned Guy on as Andrés thrashed from side to side. They wouldn’t even have conjugal rights in prison.

  Andrés couldn’t bear not to be lodged inside Guy, sheathed inside Guy’s body; it had nothing to do with being macho, it was just the need to hide, to merge, to infest.

  Guy didn’t dare refuse him. He didn’t want to refuse him, but it was hard to get on with their ordinary lives with Andrés’s finger hovering constantly over the pause button. They had to pretend at least they were living a normal life, didn’t they, the unworried, unhurried rhythm of their average days, or else nothing was enjoyable. It was the dailiness of their existence that delighted them, especially when it was slashed through with passion, like burlap erupting into red velvet welts. They had to set the table, scramble the eggs, wash the dishes—they couldn’t just devour each other, could they?

  Guy had to visit poor blind Fred in St. Vincent’s, the City of the Dead on the seventh floor of Spellman, small and dirty, all the single rooms converted into doubles. Surprisingly, it was a carnival atmosphere that afternoon—two drags were accompanying Rollerena, and she whizzed by, homely in her black glasses and dusty organdy, a fixed smile on her face, a wand in her hand. She looked like a nerdy high school girl with glasses and acne. Sister Patricia was silently patrolling the halls, her scrubbed face accented with her furry eyebrows, her white hands tucked into her full black sleeves. Fred was asleep. When Guy woke him, he smiled and said, “I wish you’d buy me a Walkman. It’s so fuckin’ boring being blind.”

  “A what?”

  “You can listen to music with it,” and he mimed earphones.

  “Ah! Un Baladeur!”

  “Do you people have your own names for everything? What’s a computer?”

  “Ordinateur.”

  “See—and a hamburger?”

  “Merde.”

  Fred laughed and sobered up enough to say, “Come tomorrow at one. My lawyer will be able to transfer the deed.”

  “One? Is that within visiting hours? Most hospitals—”

  “There are no hours up here. Sister Patricia accepts everything—hell, some of these guys even spend the night with their lovers. I’ve even heard they decorate their rooms with photos and blankets and balloons from home, not that that would do a blind man any good. No dogs so far, but that’ll come.”

  Guy kissed Fred goodbye on his thin, sour-tasting lips. He worried that if he accepted the Fire Island house he’d get into a legal squabble with Fred’s family. But, merde, if the Anglo Saxons had these crazy laws that allowed you to disinherit your own children, then he, Guy, would have to profit from their cruel, unreasonable rules. Anyway, the “children” were two middle-aged men well launched in their own careers, or so Fred said. Wasn’t one of them a podiatrist? Sore feet surely must be lucrative. Anyway, they neglected Fred and had taken their mother’s side in the divorce.

  It was tempting to take the house—that way Guy would never have to worry again about money. He could rent it out every summer. And who knew how much Andrés’s defense would set him back?

  At twelve-thirty the next day when Guy was brushing his teeth and spraying his hair, Andrés seemed moody and childish about the prospect of even a half an hour’s separation.

  “The poor man’s dying,” Guy said. “He’s already blind. You might as well be jealous of the parakeet.”

  Andrés said sullenly, “We don’t have a parakeet.” Then he laughed charmingly in spite of himself, the laugh cracking the marble of his face, and said, “And if you did, I’d be jealous of it.”

  Guy ruffled his hair and hurried out before Andrés could become desperate again. When Guy arrived on the seventh floor he could see Fred was propped up in bed. He looked shaved and washed for the occasion, his hair combed. That man Marty was sitting in the only chair, his little soft hands folded over his belly.

  As he entered the room, Guy said hi. He didn’t want to startle Fred by surprising him with a touch—Guy was good at imagining things from another person’s point of view. Marty gave his hand to be shaken—he seemed to be unfamiliar with the custom of shaking hands. Guy felt Marty was disapproving—maybe he was friends with the seal. Or maybe it was Jewish tribal thing—why enrich the pretty goy? Or maybe Guy was just being paranoid.

  “I brought you a Discman—and a dozen CDs. I’ll bring you some more tomorrow—just tell me what you want.”

  “Bernard Herrmann
. Dimitri Tiomkin. Classy music composers.”

  “What about Michel Legrand?”

  “Who?”

  “He did ‘The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.’”

  “French, right? Forget it. Well, let’s get started.”

  Marty had drawn up the papers and now he sat beside Fred on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

  “Just summarize it in ordinary language.”

  “Well, it leaves the Bel Air house to Ceil and twenty thousand to each of the boys and the Fire Island house to Guy. If anyone contests the will their bequest will be canceled. It’s called the ‘in terrorem’ clause.”

  “Do you think that will stick?”

  “I guess they could claim you were demented.”

  “I probably will be if the CMV goes into my head. That’s why I want to get this over now.”

  “Only twenty thousand for each of the boys?” Guy asked, trying to sound fair.

  “Fuck ’em! They stood by their mother. Anyway, that’s all I have if I pay off the Fire Island house. I’m not made of money; I told you I am a very minor millionaire, unless I get my AIDS movie going. I live from film to film.”

  Marty had to guide Fred’s hand for the will but also for the transfer of the deed to Guy. A nurse was called in as a witness.

  “Ceil and the boys are going to be spittin’ mad,” Fred said with a big grin.

  “You’re right there,” Marty muttered. “I can hear the schreiing already. So long, Fred.”

  “So long, Marty, don’t be a stranger. Come back and see me.”

  “Will do. What about all your actors? They ever come to see you?”

  “Those schwartzes? They’re mostly ashamed to have been in all those Super Fly movies. They want to forget about it. That was a different period, Marty. Do you have Guy’s address? For sending him the deed?”

  “You wrote it down for me.”

  The minute Marty and the nurse were gone, Fred said, “Are we alone? Good. Kiss me.”

  Fred was chewing some of the gum Guy had brought him, so his lips were fresh and moist. But it all felt too much like a transaction to Guy—I’ll give you the house if you give me a kiss. Of course the house was worth millions of kisses. It was just Fred’s assumption he now had the right to a kiss that saddened Guy—everything in America was transactional!

  Of course, Guy was the villain stealing the bread out of Fred’s sons’ well-fed jowls. There was more shrieking in the hallway—probably another surprise birthday complete with balloons and candles. But neither Guy nor Fred was curious.

  Out of deference, since Fred was blind, Guy left the lights off as the night swept in; Guy felt he should share Fred’s darkness.

  It was strange how content they were just holding hands, after all the agony of his love-grappling with Andrés, the constant anguish of trying to get another millimeter inside each other’s holes; it was kind, it was peaceful, it was companionable to just sit together like this. After all, Fred had come to the end and his last thought had been for Guy. He was a rough woodcut of a man, but the portrait was of a kind man even so.

  Guy felt that his life was under assault and that Fred was doing something crucial to help him. Guy had a superstition that he could preserve his youth only so long as nothing touched him, so long as he remained immune to any intensity of feeling. But now his father’s death, Andrés’s looming plight, Fred’s blindness and imminent death—all these events were threatening to engrave marks on Guy’s face. Something (or maybe it was Nothing) had stunned him into eternal youth, into immobility and imperviousness, but now the ice was cracking, great glacier shelves were collapsing into the sea, a disaster was warming up—and soon he’d be just a shrinking iceberg, another weathered face, he would come to life only to die. He ran to the mirror to look at himself. Nothing had changed.

  Another hour went by. By the last glimmer of daylight seeping down an airshaft and through the dirty window, Guy read a few articles out of Variety for Fred about the movie business. The slang and abbreviations were mostly unfamiliar to Guy. (“Is this English?” he asked, and Fred chuckled.)

  Apropos of nothing, Fred said, “Remember that line: ‘I grow old, I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled’? I always wondered what that meant. But now I know—you shrink as you get old and your pants are too long. And remember how gays are always supposed to be licking their eyebrows down, like this?” and he mimed licking his finger and pressing it down on his eyebrow. “That was always shorthand for saying someone was gay. But your eyebrows do grow long with age and a gay senior would worry about that.”

  Suddenly two men came into the room, wearing cream-colored masks and gloves and blue hospital gowns and shower caps. They switched the lights on and one of them said, “Dad?” and he came to sit beside his father, who touched him and said, “Howie? What are you wearing?”

  “Who’s this man, Dad?” To Guy he said, “Excuse me, but would you leave? This is a family moment.”

  “Stay right where you are, Guy. This putz is my son. Why are you wearing all that junk, Howie?”

  “For self-protection, Dad. You’re highly contagious, in case you forgot. A tear, a mosquito bite, a lick of saliva could infect us, then it’s curtains. Guy, is that your name? Scram!”

  “How dare you, Howie? Guy’s my lover.”

  “Lover?” the other man said, and laughed. He was shorter and rounder than Howie. “Some lover! So you’re the frog scumbag who infected our father, right? What’s he doing here, Dad—how did he get permission to visit? Family only. Nurse! Nurse!”

  Fred said, “Don’t budge. These schmucks ignore me for months, then come rushing in for the money shot.”

  The one called Howie, his black eyes flashing with rage over his mask, said, “He has no right to be here. Lover? The law doesn’t recognize same-sex lovers.”

  “Howie,” Fred said, “we all know you’re a shyster, but the usual laws don’t apply here at St. Vincent’s. Sister Patricia is running the AIDS wards and she knows we’re all about to croak and she has the good sense to recognize real love as opposed to greedy so-called family love.”

  “But the law—”

  “Law, schmaw,” Fred said wearily. “I’m blind, so I can’t see if you’re all suited up, too, Buster, for your dad the hazmat.”

  “I’ve taken the normal precautions,” Buster said primly.

  “I suggest you reduce your risk pronto by getting the hell out.”

  “What about your estate, Dad? You’re not leaving anything to this frog-slut, are you? We’re the rightful heirs and we’ll fight him tooth and nail.”

  “Nail?” Fred laughed. “I guess you know plenty about infected nails in the foot business. I’ll give you ten to get out or I’ll call two big interns to escort you out. Too bad our last meeting had to be so acrimonious.”

  “Dad!” Howie wailed indignantly. “We love you. Didn’t we come in all the way from Scarsdale?”

  “Big fuckin’ deal. One, two, three—”

  “We’re going to fight this, Dad, poor old demented man. They call it the Stockholm syndrome, the victim bonds with his captor—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Fred said. “You don’t know anything bout this ’cause you haven’t talked to me in two years. Five, six, seven—”

  “He’ll never get a dime,” Buster said, “your scumbag so-called lover.”

  “Eight, nine, ten!” Fred pushed the emergency button and the nurse came running.

  “Yes, Mr. Fred,” a big Caribbean woman said. “What does my boyfriend want?”

  “Helen, I want you to get these shmucks out of here. They’re annoying the hell out of me.”

  “But darlin’, they said they’re your sons.”

  “No, they’re just bill collectors.”

  Helen said, “Shame on you, bothering a nice man like my little sweetheart, Fred. Now git!”

  “Ma’am, we really are his sons,” Howie said.

  “That’s funny, I never sees you befo’
and I been here the whole time.”

  “I can get a court order banning this Guy creep and—”

  “You do that, hon, but visiting hours are up, now git before I call for help.”

  “And he can stay?” Howie pointed to Guy.

  “He’s Mr. Fred’s special friend. Rules don’t apply.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’m going right now to the district judge.”

  Fred smiled. “I’d say, ‘Over my dead body,’ but I don’t want to rush things.”

  “Dad,” Buster said. “Don’t you have any family feeling?”

  “No more than you do,” Fred said coolly. “No, don’t touch me with your gloves and masks—just rush right back to your mother with horror stories of your demented dad.”

  “Do you admit you’re demented?”

  “Get out!” Fred bellowed.

  “I’ve taped you saying that you’re demented. It can be used in court.”

  The nurse, Helen, had gone off to fetch two orderlies in the meanwhile. “Would you boys escort these gen’men out? They’re bothering my sweetie pie, Mr. Fred, and visiting hours are definitely over.”

  As the brothers were accompanied out, the lawyer shook a finger at Guy and said, “You’ll be hearing from us!”

  Fred was laughing. “How did I beget two such miserable specimens? Come sit here beside me.” Guy complied and bent down to kiss Fred’s puckered lips.

  6.

  In the courtroom the lawyer for the prosecution had a beautiful face, cruel blue eyes, and such a strong Scottish brogue that neither Andrés nor Guy could understand anything he said. Everything in the courtroom was dun-colored and outmoded, starting with the short balding judge in his creased black robe and with his grating Brooklyn accent, even his way of sucking up his nasal phlegm after every halfhearted remark—Guy agreed with Chanel that everything was fashion—the weather, the room, the people.

  Guy was so fearful of what was to become of Andrés, but it was hard to think these common people would be deciding his fate. Perhaps it was because of his privileged (even fairy-tale) adulthood and his banal childhood and adolescence, but in France, where everyone could be bought, Guy kept thinking if he fucked or paid or befriended someone, he could make all this go away. The idea that his beautiful lover’s fate was in the badly manicured hands of these slobs (okay, okay, the Scot wasn’t a slob) infuriated him. He knew he was just a poor kid from Clermont-Ferrand, but suddenly he felt like a marquis by contrast and this trial seemed to be the revenge of the vulgar on the extraordinary. He was right to take Fred’s house; never again must he be poor or vulnerable. He must be armored against the assaults of the average with wealth and beauty and connections.