Our Young Man (25 page)

Kevin was the first to wake up. “You’re back early. Concorde?”

“Yes. You two look so great together.” Guy felt torn between lust and jealousy.

“We went out last night dancing at the Roxy and didn’t get home till dawn. If I’d known you were flying the Concorde …”

“It was all very last-minute. You know fashion people—hurry up and wait.” If Guy were cheekier he would lie down in the midst of this flowery bower.

Their voices had awakened Chris, who smiled weakly and waved, looked grumpy, adjusted himself, ran into the bathroom, and dressed quickly. A moment later he was gone, his hair all scrunched to one side.

“Why does he have a burr up his ass?”

“He’s just jealous,” Kevin said. Guy wondered why jealous if Chris was so straight, and why was he dancing in a gay club? Chris was barely out the door before Kevin clawed off Guy’s clothes. Afterward, he said to Kevin, while holding him in his arms, what he’d rehearsed so many times, “Baby?”

“Yes, Daddy?” Kevin was holding him and hadn’t yet pulled out.

“What if we each got a discreet tattoo?”

Kevin thought for a moment about this proposal, more jarring than anything he’d anticipated: A model with a tattoo? Weren’t tattoos forever? Did people like them ever get them? Weren’t they something white trash had? “Pardon?” he said.

Guy pulled free, sat up on the towel he’d spread out, and looked Kevin in the eye. Guy worried that he looked strange with his sprayed-on tan just on his face and hands from his last job for sunglasses. (Didn’t they say they wanted an exclusive? How much would that pay? For how many days? Would Élite work all that out with Pierre-Georges? Would the client shoot in New York? Did that young Italian photographer, Giorgio, ever work in New York?) “I’m sorry, I’m still half in Milan, worrying about work.”

“Poor guy,” Kevin said, stroking his face and worrying about Guy’s unrelieved erection now shrinking to half-mast.

“I thought we could get tiny number eights behind our earlobes.”

“Why that number?”

“If it’s on its side, it’s the symbol for infinity and could stand for our eternal love.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Kevin said, and pecked him on the lips. Quite the commitment, Kevin thought, smiling. “How did you even know that?” he asked, astonished that Guy knew so many things he didn’t; must be his French background.

And indeed Guy explained he’d read about it in a story but he couldn’t remember whose. It probably was a French author’s, a man was in love with a nun and managed to have the infinity symbol projected on the convent lawn just outside her window.

“That’s so romantic,” Kevin said with a frown. “Wouldn’t it be dangerous? I mean, if it got infected?”

Guy made a clucking sound of dismissal and Kevin felt about as daring as a grandmother. “Yeah,” Guy said, “they might have to amputate our heads.”

Kevin said, “That wouldn’t affect me in the least,” though secretly he thought he and Chris were smarter than Guy. They both did well in trig, whereas Guy could barely add. He felt startled, even offended, when Guy knew things he didn’t. Though superior knowledge was only natural in a sophisticated man who’d traveled the world’s capitals for two decades and who liked to read, Guy’s occasional pockets of esoteric knowledge were still disturbing to Kevin, who didn’t want to think of all those years before they’d met or all the conversations Guy might be having now without Kevin, some shared laugh of camaraderie with another runway model backstage as they both wore protective cloth coats over their white alpaca suits, so easy to soil, so likely to shed.

“I guess that would mean we really were married,” Kevin said. “It would be a statement of some sort, that this time it’s for keeps.”

“Of course it’s for keeps,” Guy said. What if Kevin ever met Andrés and saw that he had the same tattoo? Guy could foresee a disaster like that, but the one thing he counted on was that, even if his whole world exploded, he’d always be able to attract new people, maybe of not the same caliber, but good enough. He’d once gotten drunk with a handsome flight attendant who’d said, “The good thing and the bad thing about being a steward is that you never have to make anything work with a guy, because you’re always flying off and meeting new guys.” Being an international model was like that; even in Milan he’d met two other models who’d fancied him. He liked models—they were so clean. Everyone said they were shallow, but he thought it depended. He knew one, that black guy with the Afro he’d met in Chicago, who’d gotten a Ph.D. in something.

“But won’t a facial tattoo be a problem for a model?” Kevin asked.

“Pierre-Georges was right. I need a new look. Anyway, I’m going to grow my hair long to cover my ears—and I have such dumb ears.”

“Aw, they’re cute!”

“And I’m going to stop shaving every day. I’ll have some stubble. I saw a model in Milan with stubble and it was very chic. Everyone was fascinated.” He thought for a moment, picturing his new look. “Ultra-masculine. I’ll start wearing punk, masculine clothes to go-sees. Lots of leather. Safety pins. If that works I’ll push my hair back on one side and show my tattoo. Enough with the
Gentleman’s Quarterly
look. Models are so square.”

“Who will tattoo us? Does it hurt? It will be so strange to have something … permanent … making me different from Chris. I mean, a mustache, okay, or five pounds, a haircut, but a brand on your flesh?”

“A brand? Let’s not be melodramatic. I think they give you an anesthetic. I’ll find a clean, artistic tattoo artist. It’s becoming far more common.”

“Really? I don’t want to look like a scumbag. We used to say you should never have anything on your body that you couldn’t cover up with long sleeves before a judge.”

“Did you, now? In Ely?” Guy said with just the right combination, he hoped, of ridicule and condescension.

Not wishing to be vexed with Guy, Kevin kissed him and said,“I don’t want to look like a convict.”

Guy had an attack of vertigo at the mention of the word “convict.” He went pale and said, “It must be late for me. Eleven. Let’s go eat something.”

“I’m going to cook something. A mushroom risotto.”

Where on earth did he learn to make that? Guy wondered. Rice sounded fattening, but he thought he’d eat only two spoonfuls. He was disciplined enough to do that, and if he ate three he’d vomit his entire lunch. That was a promise he made himself.

Lucie knew the name of an aesthetic tattoo artist. They made an appointment and went to a dirty little parlor in Chinatown, a third-floor walk-up, smelling of roach spray and Kools. The man, a wizened ex-sailor with sleeves of faded tattoos on both arms, looked like Popeye. All he lacked were a corncob pipe and a can of spinach. It took a hastily drawn sketch to convince him they wanted matching eights behind their left ears, tiny and no colors, visible only behind the lobe.

“I might just as well make them in lemon juice,” the man said mournfully. “But I get it. I’ve had timid gentlemen like you two before. Sure, I can do it. Guess you guys are special pals?” and he set to work on Guy first. His needles looked dirty, and Guy worried he might get the AIDS or hepatitis from them, but he didn’t dare show any qualms, lest Kevin back down.

That night neither of them could sleep from the pain behind their earlobes. The man had said the tattoos would scab over in a day, and the whole thing had taken less than an hour. It was the last burst of warm weather and they strolled over to a café on MacDougal that was open all night. As they were coming home, they ran into Pierre-Georges, who was with one of his older tough guys.

“Thanks for calling to say you were back,” Pierre-Georges said snidely, after the cursory introductions in which he mentioned only Guy’s and Kevin’s names.

“So where are you coming from?” Kevin asked brightly. “Boots & Saddle, or, as we say, Bras & Girdle?”

“Ha-ha,” Pierre-Georges said as words, not a laugh; he was clearly irritated. The overweight trick, pockmarked and reeking of beer, put his arm around Pierre-Georges’s waist as if Pierre-Georges might go off with his friends—or maybe to steady himself. “We were at Ty’s, if you must know.” Then to Guy: “What’s with the stubble? The long hair? The bandage?”

“I just got back today. As you suggested, I’m trying for a new image. Stubble—something hypermasculine. Pietro Whatsit in Milano was all stubble in the Armani
défilé
and all the photographers went crazy over him.”

“You might have consulted me before you took such a drastic step—and the bandage?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I nicked myself.
Je me suis blessé en rasant
.”

“You were shaving behind your ear? Both of you?” because he’d registered that Kevin had a bandage in the same place. “You don’t shave at all, I suspect,” he said to Kevin as a reproach.

The trick looked startled by the few words Guy had said in French. New Yorkers were used to Spanish, at least the Puerto Rican kind, which sounded normal if substandard to them, rapid-fire and familiar, especially when English words were constantly dropped in. French, however, startled New Yorkers. It was a serious grown-up language, and New Yorkers suspected Parisians considered themselves their equals if not their superiors. Pierre-Georges didn’t want to lose his trick, who just as easily might have lurched off into the night, heading back to the bar for a second strike, though Ty’s had looked pretty much fished out.

“They’re tattoos,” Guy said. “Tiny ones behind the ear.”

“Chic,” Pierre-Georges whispered with awe instead of exploding. “Come along,” he said to the trick; he obviously didn’t know his name. Pierre-Georges lurched forward for air-kisses on both of Guy’s cheeks.

When they were out of earshot, Kevin said, “He’s weird.”

“You mean rude? Don’t imagine he ever approves of my boyfriends. French, Spanish, American—he’s rude to all of them.”

Kevin found being one of many was troubling, not reassuring as Guy had probably intended. “Does he have any other clients?”

“Two. Both French. But since everyone knows me and likes me, he doesn’t book them often. Poor guys.”

“How does he survive?”

“He’s signed some very lucrative contracts for me, and my commercials keep bringing in big residuals for months. And remember a manager gets a bigger slice of the pie than an agent.”

“So you’re really his cash cow. Is that why he’s so possessive? Or is he in love with you?”

“You saw the kind of brute he goes for. No, let’s just say he’s my Chris, not in love but jealous anyway.”

They were sitting on their stoop, speaking in low voices, watching these huge behemoth American cars lurch by. (There was a stop sign on their corner.) A tall, prissy young man strode by, belting out show tunes to himself at midnight. Oh, he was wearing earphones, Guy noticed, and probably had no idea how loud he was singing. It was an old one, “New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town, the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down.” The man’s voice was operatic, his diction was as fruity as an old diva’s, and his pitch was wobbly. Guy thought,
These absurd showbiz queens are as much a part of New York street life as sirens, steam from manholes, or ghostly Asian deliverymen ferrying chop-suey-to-go on unlit bikes going the wrong way.

The next morning Guy and Kevin pulled off their bandages and Guy applied antibiotic cream to their tattoos. Lucie came by for coffee.

“I like your new look,” she said to Guy. “Stubble, jeans, and a wife-beater.”

“Is that what you call a
débardeur
?”

“Yes, or a Guinea T-shirt.”

“That’s a riot,” Guy said. “A wife-beater.”

“And you, sweetheart?” she said to Kevin. “Is it true you’re going to try modeling?”

“No, Pierre-Georges said I was too short and not virile enough and not a perfect size-forty.”

Lucie said, “I guess compared to the thugs he goes for, big smelly guys with guts. So what are you going to do?”

Guy listened attentively to Kevin’s answer. So often the unspoken etiquette of the couple forbade direct questions and clear answers and an outsider’s chance inquiry was more likely to flush out plans than any discussion (or silence) between lovers.

“I’m going to get my B.A. in poli-sci at Columbia and then a master’s at Georgetown or wherever and take the civil service exam and hopefully become a career diplomat. Chris wants to go back to Ely and take over Dad’s business and become an outfitter, though he’ll have to wait, because Dad’s just forty-five now.”

Five years older than me
, Guy thought.

“A diplomat, huh?” Lucie said.

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “I’ve always wanted to travel. And I’ve always liked history and politics. And I’m polite and diplomatic, people say.”

“You’d be a very handsome ambassador.”

“Thanks, but ambassadors are used car salesmen who made big contributions to the party coffers. I want to be a cultural attaché or something—that’s why you two guys have to teach me French! Let’s speak French at least one hour a day. Well, after I’ve had a semester. Right now it’d be useless. You’ll see, I’m good at languages, at least we were stars at Norwegian camp back in Minnesota.” Kevin realized instantly he’d said “we” and hoped that Guy wouldn’t be jealous or even notice.

When they were alone, Kevin said, “That Lucie is so sweet. Finally a friend of yours I can reach out to.”

“You would have liked Fred, too. Very down-to-earth.” Guy was proud of that expression, “down-to-earth.” Americans used it all the time, though he wasn’t quite sure what it meant—
terre-à-terre
?

“What kind of movies did he make?”

Guy stumbled over the unfamiliar word: “Blaxploitation.”

“Oh, dear.”

“What? I think it was kind of him to make movies for Africans. Well, let’s not argue. So you want to be a diplomat?”

“My adviser at Colombia thinks I’d make a good one.”

“But wouldn’t that take you far away—to Peru?”

“It’ll be years from now,” Kevin said, smiling, “if ever. Maybe you’ll be … tired of modeling and can come with me.”

“Tired or fired or retired.”

“I want to support you, for once. It’ll be my turn. I’ll try to get us a French-speaking country.”