In Memory of Angel Clare (2 page)

Michael was touched by the boy’s openness, touched and worried for him. “Yes,” he said calmly. “But let’s spend some time together first. Then see how we feel about each other after dinner.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” Relieved, the boy burst out laughing. “You must think I’m a real geek,” he said, without shame. “I’d never come right out and ask that back home. But here, what’ve I got to lose if I make an ass of myself? I’ll never see the other person again.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Michael mumbled, and looked for the way to the Boulevard St. Germain. He was glad he had been spared the obnoxious, vulnerable stage Tim was still going through.

After a few blocks, Michael found what he was looking for: the Café de Flore. They took a place in the acre of round tables out front and Tim ordered a beer, Michael a cognac. All around them, well-dressed adults and casually dressed students chattered away in French, columns of smelly blue smoke rising from their plump cigarettes. What was left of the day fell in yellow scraps through the trees along the curb.

Tim gulped his beer, looked very serious and said, “Is it because of AIDS?”

“Is what?” said Michael sharply, then regained himself.

“Your wanting to know me first? I can tell you right off, I haven’t been promiscuous. As I’m sure you can tell.”

Michael made a slight shrug, which he tried to clarify with a philosophical wave of his hand.

“I’ve only done it with six guys and it’s always been safe. Lucky for me, the things I like best are all safe.” Tim spoke as if the people around them wouldn’t understand English; Michael wasn’t so sure.

“I was scared to do anything for the longest time because of AIDS. But I realize now I was just using it as another excuse not to take the leap. It’s all so abstract to me. I know it’s not a hoax, but that’s what it feels like sometimes. Living in New York, you probably think about it differently. It’s probably old hat to you by now.”

There were so many things to say, Michael was tempted to say nothing. But if he were silent, Tim might think
Michael
had it. So Michael said, “You learn to live with it.”

Instead of pressing further, Tim said, “I only came out six months ago. Started doing things, I mean. I’ve been telling people I’m gay ever since I was eighteen.”

Luckily, Tim was young and needed to talk about himself. High-school crushes, glimpses of magazines, the novels read in the library, then the conversation after dinner with Mom and Dad: he went into it at length without fearing it might be “old hat” to Michael. Actually, it was all so innocent, so unlike the experience of Michael and everyone he knew it seemed sweetly foreign. Tim had discovered he was gay without any blood being shed, without even dirtying his hands. And then took two years to actually do anything. It was funny hearing the story told backward like that.

Michael finished one cognac, then another, sank down further in his chair and listened. Tim’s parents sounded quite liberal and educated, Evanston a more enlightened place than Phillipsburg, New Jersey, but Michael did not feel envious. He could feel affectionate toward the boy from his superior position of experience. He wanted to tell Tim a little about that experience, as a way of preparing the boy for the pain ahead of him. But not yet.

Shifting his legs beneath the table that was little bigger than a dinner plate, Michael brushed his foot against something. That something brushed back, then pressed a knee against Michael’s knee. Michael caught the knee between his knees, and lightly squeezed it.

Tim smiled. “You sure you don’t want to eat a late dinner?”

“It’s so nice here,” said Michael. “Why spoil it?” But he held the knob of knee between his thighs and smiled back at Tim. For once in his life, he was the older man, the mentor, the seducer, although Tim didn’t require seducing. Michael glanced at the stack of two saucers on the table and wondered if he was drunk. He hadn’t eaten anything all day.

“What do you do?” And Tim giggled. “For a living, I mean.”

“I’m a male stripper.”

Tim giggled again. “I mean really.”

“I’m a filmmaker.”

“Really?” Tim paused, as if this too might be a tease. “Oh, like experimental shorts. Video or 16 millimeter? I guess nobody does Super 8 anymore.”

So the boy knew about film as well as art and literature. Sublimation, Michael thought, those two years between knowing and doing. But he could put Tim in his place. “I did those in the beginning yes. But feature films now. Well, one feature anyway.” Michael heard himself and liked the picture he presented. “Just a low-budget horror film. But one has to start somewhere.”

“Yeah? Wow. I had no idea. What’s it called? Maybe I saw it.”

“
Disco of the Damned
.”

Tim laughed, of course.

“The title was the producer’s doing. He said dumb titles are the best sell in that market. We wanted to call it
Nightshade
.”

“You know, I think I read about that somewhere,” said Tim, surprised by the thought. “Honest. Something about it being better than it sounded?”

Michael became excited. “Jack Arcalli wrote about it in
Film Comment.
In the front section. Jack was a good friend of Clarence’s.”

“No. I don’t read
Film Comment.
But somewhere. Who’s Clarence?”

“Clarence Laird. He was the director.”

“You didn’t direct it?”

Had Michael intended to give that impression? “No. I kind of codirected. Actually, I was more the screenwriter.” Which had some truth to it.

“Still. That’s really something. Even a cheapo horror film. Some good people got started that way. Are you and Clarence working on something else now?”

“A few possibilities. Nothing definite.” But saying that, Michael remembered there were no possibilities now, no future plans, no future. He released Tim’s knee and snapped his fingers at the waiter for another cognac. “What’s London like?”

He pretended to listen while Tim talked about museums and plays. He let the glow of alcohol in his stomach and face fill up the sudden space inside him.

The sensation of drinking while it was still light, combined with the parade of people on the sidewalk, made him feel as if he were already back in New York. Then he thought he saw Peter Griffith. Michael looked again. He saw a balding man with a red beard who looked very much like Peter. The man stood out on the sidewalk, looking through the smoky air and gesticulating hands of the café, as if at Michael. A stocky woman with iron-gray hair stood with her back to the café and furiously whispered in the man’s ear. She glanced over her shoulder, quickly looked away, and tried to haul the man down the street.

“Livy!” Michael shouted, and jumped up. “Livy! Peter!” He stumbled around feet and chairs, hurrying out to the street.

Livy Griffith slowly turned around and faced him. She set her teeth in a grin, crow’s feet spreading over her tanned face. Peter smiled more naturally and opened his arms to Michael.

“Hey, hey. Small world,” he said with his Carolina drawl, and hugged Michael hello. “We knew you were over here. Never dreamed we’d run into you.”

“Michael,” said Livy flatly when he hugged her, gingerly patting him on the back.

He stepped away, looked at both of them, then at the street. “You’re in Paris,” he said. “That’s wonderful.”

Peter wiggled his eyebrows. “Just for a few days. We fly home tomorrow. I’m doing the poster for a French film they’re distributing in America, and they thought I should see the thing here. Little junket to make up for what they’re paying me.”

“I wish I’d known you were here!” Michael cried. “I’ve been here two weeks and don’t know a soul. We could’ve seen Paris together.”

Peter gave Livy a sidelong glance and Livy said, “Oh, you see plenty of us in New York, Michael. We wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.” She nodded at the tables beneath the café awning. “And it looks like you know at least
one
soul here.”

Michael saw Tim watching them, face propped on his fist, knuckles covering his mouth.

“Just an American tourist I met today. Come over and join us and I’ll buy you a drink.” He grinned at Tim, gestured at Peter and Livy to follow him, and headed back toward the table, overjoyed to be playing host to the Griffiths.

But when he reached the table, only Peter was with him. Livy stood out on the sidewalk, studying her wristwatch.

“Livy can’t join us?”

Peter gritted his teeth inside his beard. “Neither of us can, Michael. We’re having dinner with some business people tonight and were on our way back to the hotel to change.”

“Aw,” Michael groaned. “I wanted to take us all out to dinner.” He noticed Tim frowning.

“That’s very kind of you.” Peter glanced out at Livy. “If we had the time, we would’ve taken you out. But I’m afraid the pursuit of lucre comes first.”

“I understand,” said Michael, deeply disappointed, faintly hurt. “Oh, this is Tim,” he remembered to say. “Tim’s an art student. Peter Griffith, the painter.” He could at least show Tim the kind of important friends he had.

“More an illustrator nowadays,” said Peter, shaking the boy’s hand.

“Peter did the poster for the film I was telling you about.”

“
Disco of the Damned
?” said Tim.

Peter snorted and shook his head. “Or whatever that fool producer ended up calling it. Yes, I did that. As a favor for a very close friend of mine. And Michael’s,” he added. He looked at Michael for a moment, then laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “So how you doing?” he said softly. “You having a good time on your trip?”

“Of course.” But Peter was someone who understood. “There’s good days and bad days. It’s strangest when I go to places he used to talk about.”

“He loved this place, you know.”

“I know.” But Michael had come alone to the Café de Flore so many times he had forgotten. Would Peter and Livy think ill of him for bringing somebody else here?

“You should enjoy yourself,” Peter told him. “You deserve it. He’d want you to enjoy yourself. Youth, freedom, and a bit of money in Paris,” he sighed. “I must say I envy you.” He gave Michael’s shoulder a squeeze and released it. “I better be going. Livy’s going to chide me for my long Southern goodbyes. I’m sure we’ll see you back in New York. Nice meeting you,” he told Tim. “All right then. Bye now.” He bowed sideways as he stepped back and didn’t turn away completely until he was halfway to the street.

“Have a nice dinner!” Michael called out and waved goodbye to Livy.

Livy lifted her hand and smiled, then took Peter by the arm and hurried him off, her long dark skirt beating around their legs.

Michael remained standing, feeling confused, sad, and oddly content. It was as though he were pleased by the sorrow revived in him by Peter’s sympathy. Sorrow felt more genuine than all his petty doubts and anxieties.

Tim looked bucktoothed and younger than ever after Peter and Livy. He seemed to be thinking something out.

Michael sat down. “What a coincidence! Those are two of my very best friends.” Which was an exaggeration, but meeting anyone in a foreign place elevated them in importance. “Don’t let Peter fool you. He’s still a very good painter. The poster he did for us was as good as anything you see in SoHo.”

“I was afraid at first they were friends of your parents. But they’re your friends?” Tim hesitated. “They didn’t seem very friendly. Especially the woman.”

“No?” The thought had crossed Michael’s mind too, but he didn’t trust it. “They had to be somewhere,” he insisted. “You have to know them. And Livy’s that way. She plays the oboe.”

“The guy you two were talking about? That was Clarence?”

“Clarence Laird, yes.”

“He was your boyfriend?”

The question startled Michael. His conversation with Peter had given him away. He tried being very still and stoical. He nodded his head.

“I know it’s none of my business, but—”

It did not feel right to tell Tim about Clarence. It was too intimate and important a fact to waste on a stranger. And yet, Michael felt a sudden urge to be wasteful with everything he had been saving.

“He’s dead now?” said Tim.

“Yes.”

“Oh God. I’m sorry. I really am. That’s really awful.” Tim contorted his face over it, grimaced and blinked, embarrassed at having asked something he did not know how to respond to. Then he said, “AIDS,” in a voice so reverent there wasn’t room for it to sound like a question.

Michael nodded, finding it perfectly natural the boy already knew.

“I’m sorry. Damn. When?”

“Last October.”

“Almost a year then.”

He sounded faintly relieved, as if that were a long time ago. Time had stood so still since then that Michael could not believe it was almost a year.

But the look Tim gave him remained full of embarrassed wonder and awe. He looked at Michael as if Michael were more real than anything he had ever seen. It was a strangely flattering look. He reached out and touched Michael on the arm, sadly, boldly, as if to prove he weren’t afraid of touching him.

“I don’t have it,” said Michael. “Not even the antibodies.”

Tim let go, flustered to have his thought read. “That’s good. That must be a big relief to you.” He held his hand in midair a moment, then returned it to his lap.

“He was thirty-eight,” Michael announced. “Everything was coming together for him. For us. Careerwise. But we were everything to each other. ‘Boyfriend’ wasn’t the right word for either of us. We were together three years, you see.”

Michael began calmly, wanting the boy to think about Clarence and not him. But as he continued he found himself touching emotions he had kept packed down since he left New York. Sadness came back to him changed, more physical than he remembered it being. The rich, warm sorrow that had begun when Peter Griffith touched his shoulder grew until Michael could feel it in his eyes.

“He was a wonderful person,” Michael declared. “He was the first man I ever loved. He was handsome, wise, and talented. We were going to go to Europe when we finished our movie. We were so close. His death is the most important thing that’ll ever happen to me…”

He was crying now and couldn’t continue. He lowered his head, trying to keep the tears from running down his face, but his eyes only filled more quickly. He couldn’t breathe without sobbing, so he tried not to breathe. When he finally took a breath, it felt so good to sob and blubber he couldn’t stop. He let himself cry, enjoying the sensation of grief washing away everything.