Martin and John (19 page)

People commented on the suit. Seth, the other fag in the office, said, That’s an Armani. I know Armani. How did
you
afford
Armani
on
your
salary? I debated whether to tell him, finally decided that the story was already too strange, and besides, I’d rather be mysterious. One thing I didn’t consider, however, was the idea that Martin and I might not go on seeing each other—that we might not be worth talking about. I believed that gifts from him, unlike those from other lovers, were no real indication of interest—later I’d realize I’d been wrong—but still, there’d been something definite about the eager way he’d looked at me that morning and the hungry kiss he’d given me at the elevator. We’re not supposed to take personal calls at work, I’d told him, I’ll call you. You do that, he said. That enigmatic smile, and the door closed. I was at my desk, caught in a passage about the relationship of green leafy vegetables and coronary occlusion, when I remembered that the funny thing was, he’d never asked for my number.

PERHAPS IT WAS her name, but I’d pictured her as a Susan Sontag type, and she did resemble a young version of her, though she wasn’t a lesbian. The same thick black hair
that was always almost messy, the same strong shoulders, a tendency to be photographed in dark clothes. The first thing she said to me was, Don’t let him get to you. Martin had been right: I liked her immediately. What do you mean? I asked, following her into her kitchen, where it was less noisy. Already I’d been comforted by the large rectangular rooms of her apartment. Susan opened the fridge, took out a carton of orange juice, poured it into a glass pitcher. She said, He has too much money but no imagination, so he finds other people to do the thinking for him. She paused for a moment. I wonder what he’s doing with you, then. What do you mean? I asked. John, she said, the reason why I’ve always liked Martin is that he’s interested in people as personalities, not acquisitions. Susan—I began, but she put up her hand. Now, now, she said, I realize I’m not giving you the benefit of the doubt. She used her hip to push open the kitchen door, and smiled at me as the noise from her party rushed in from the living room. When I figure out what it is he likes about you, you’ll be the first to know. Now wish me a happy birthday and let’s be festive. Happy birthday, I said to her back; already she was yelling over the din. Martin, she called, there’s a performance at the Nuyorican you
must
see. But if Martin heard her he didn’t respond. He was dancing in the living room, surrounded by the lamps he’d bought—I still wasn’t sure if they were gifts or decoration. All at once he began to spin in a circle, and a cape he’d tied around his neck earlier began to float away from his body. The other dancers fell back,
laughing. Martin spun and spun. How long could he keep it up, I wondered. The cape, held aloft by his arms and the force of his spin, unfurled around him in a full circle so that he seemed like a child’s kaleidoscopic top, the black silk of his cape catching the many lights and separating them into reds and blues, greens, violent purples; on the wooden floor his shiny slippers did the same, only the light hit them less frequently, flashing as though off jewels or water. He’ll trip, I thought, he’ll grow dizzy and fall. He looked like a vampire of the Bram Stoker variety, except for his perfect tan. He looked nuts. How long can he keep it up? I thought. But I never found out—I turned away first, in some way overwhelmed, and there was Susan, smiling, combining two half-full bowls of pretzels, saying, Now, what did I say? Don’t let him get to you.

YOU NEED A look, Martin said one morning after breakfast. At what? I asked. No, you need to look
like
something. How about an armadillo? I’ve always wanted to look like an armadillo. Martin left me on the couch, walked across what I called the
Challenger
lounge: uncomfortable, space-age plastic furniture, recessed TVs, a fireburst print on the wall. You’re being defensive, he said. I hugged the couch’s arm to keep from slipping into the empty space where Martin had sat and waited for the cushion to reinflate. I thought defensiveness was expected of a person who’s been told he looks
inadequate, I said, and crossed my legs. I had to catch myself then with both hands to keep from sliding off the couch’s narrow seat. I didn’t say you looked inadequate—it’s just that you look like every other gay boy in off the farm from Kansas. Two things, I said, uncrossing my legs and regaining my balance. First, I’m more likely to meet two guys from the same alpine village at one of your parties than another gay boy from Kansas. It’s one of my selling points. Martin folded his arms across his chest and smiled. The second thing? he asked. The second thing is that I wasn’t raised on a farm. I grew up in a city of two hundred thousand people. My apologies, Martin said. Now, would you like to see what I have in mind? Perhaps something in latex, I suggested. Martin looked at me seriously. Latex? Why? Well, I said, pushing myself up again, I’m sure the adhesiveness would keep me from slipping off this damn couch! Martin laughed. You have a sense of humor, I love that. But seriously, he said, and pulled something from a drawer. This is more of what I had in mind. He walked over and handed me a framed photograph. His diamond, exposed to the light, distracted me for a moment, and then, when I looked at the picture, I didn’t know if I should be more shocked by its subject or by its autograph. To M, it said, after Key West. Martin, I said, this is James Dean. I don’t look anything like James Dean. Precisely, Martin said. Precisely.

That evening, my apartment: as I let myself in the door, arms burdened with packages, I realized that this was the first time I’d seen its three rooms, counting bathroom, in a week.
I dropped the packages on the floor, sat on the futon. Across the room, I saw my reflection in a window: my new hair, lightened, was piled on top of my head. I ran my fingers through it until it flattened. My fashion makeover, Martin had called it, but it—and all these packages—seemed like much more than that. A gust of wind shook the window, and I got up and opened it. Outside, below, trash was swirling over the sidewalk, and I let the wind mess up my hair even more. While I stood there the buzzer rang. Florist, said an anonymous voice, male, tough, when I answered the second buzz. A few minutes later an enormous vase of roses sat atop the TV, the only surface in my apartment large enough to hold them. There were so many that the light of a floor lamp beside the TV changed color as it passed through them and cast a pink shadow on the floor. For just a second I was swept away by their beauty, and then I thought, He has my address, and a vague feeling of unease crept along my neck like a fur-legged spider. I lay back on the futon and looked at the flowers, listened to the wind blow. After a minute I shifted my gaze to the ceiling. There was something nice about it, I thought, all plain and white and bare. Nothing about it reminded me of Martin. Or of myself.

THE NEXT WEEK we went to three gallery openings, one closing, two parties not related to art, and we dined out with Susan at least three times. One meal stands out. I remember
it only because I’d asked Susan—in jest, I’d thought—if she’d figured out why Martin liked me. He was in the bathroom. No, she said, and pulled at a strand of her hair. But I will tell you this. She seemed serious, and I remember leaning forward in my chair. There are three mistakes I’ve seen men make with Martin: They tell him they love him. They don’t tell him they love him. She paused, and looked behind me. Turning, I saw Martin approaching. And the third? I prompted, facing her again. The third thing is, they begin to expect money from him, and they take it without asking. Well, I said, I’m in no danger of doing that. Months later, at another meal, Susan would tell me that I was the first person she’d ever seen leave Martin with his desire unfulfilled. What about
my
desire? I would ask. Susan smiled, and I think she intended for that smile to resemble Martin’s. What about it? she asked. And, now that I think about it, something else happened at that first meal. We’d been talking about death—not death exactly, but ways of dying. I don’t remember much of what we said, but I do remember that at one point Martin turned on me after I said something. His smile was missing and his face, and voice, seemed cold without it. He said, I will certainly not die of something as ordinary as AIDS, John. How—he paused, searching for a word—how
mundane!

I WAS IN the lounge with the comfortable chairs when I heard Martin’s voice. John, it said, and then it laughed. I
looked up guiltily. I’d been watching myself in a mirror, studying the way I draped one black-dungareed leg over the other, the way I slouched in a chair so that my chest—a chest James Dean never had—was shown to its best advantage. A large tourmaline, just back from the jeweler, hung on a silver chain from my neck. John, I heard again, and then rustling water. Martin, I called, where are you? John, John, John, came Martin’s voice, holding each word out, and then another laugh. I’m in the john, John. Martin—I started, but his voice cut me off. Follow the yellow brick road, Martin sang, and I confess, after four weeks of his apartment I still used it to help me find my way to the bedroom, which was empty. Then I saw a light in the bathroom. Martin, back to me, naked, stood in a tub of water singing into the intercom. Follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the—Martin, I said. He turned jerkily, as if he stood in mud, not water. John, he said. He scooped up a double handful of water. Love-ly, he said, breaking the word in half, and then nothing more. I walked to him. His body was beautiful even without clothes. It betrayed no hint of his age. Only his penis was wrinkled, but then, I suppose, every man’s is. I thought he was offering me cupped hands full of water, and I leaned forward. It looked clean. It even sparkled, as though his hands held not one but a thousand diamonds. He’s bathing in Perrier, I thought, perhaps even champagne, and I smiled. Maybe he saw the reflection in his hands, but just as my tongue touched the liquid’s surface and I tasted a hardness, Martin opened his hands and a hundred crystals and a
little water spilled to the floor, clattering. Martin pulled me into the tub suddenly, and even as I yelled, Martin! My pants! my legs drove through what felt like warm ice, and then Martin was pulling me to him and kissing me and pushing down my pants, the crystals and water in the tub rumbling like thunder, the tourmaline a lump between our chests, and Martin’s hands, like his voice had been, were everywhere. The last thing I saw before closing my eyes was the dye of my new pants leaching into the water and surrounding each crystal, and I thought the tub looked like it was full of oil and water, and I thought I could drop a match into it and it would burst into flame. And all I could think was that no one—
no one
—would ever hold me like that again.

MARTIN’S HAIR: IT’S what first comes to mind when I think of the night we took the subway. I remember its thick luxuriance, and I remember how I rested my hand under his occipital bone while we watched a Nuyorican performance, and I remember rubbing my fingers against the crewed back and pushing them into the longer hair on top of his head. I remember how his hair waved in the heavy wind that blew on us as we walked the unnumbered streets of the Lower East Side, looking for a subway station. He’d insisted we take a train and ignored my request to get a cab. His head was the only part of his body, besides his shoes, visible under his ashcolored plastic Miyake trench coat, which
inflated in the wind and made Martin seem, from the back, like a bloated Michelin man. When we finally found a station Martin was so unused to taking the subway that he steered us to the downtown line and we were well on our way to Brooklyn before he realized our error. He got up and studied a subway map for a moment, then came back to me and announced that we could switch to the uptown line at Borough Hall. I just nodded my head. Then there was a long silence between us, only train sounds, and I fell asleep. Martin woke me at Borough Hall, and holding hands, we ascended one flight of stairs and descended another, and we sat down on a bench in the deserted station. I fell asleep again, and was awakened this time by voices. How you doing, honey? I opened my eyes to see a pale arm littered with freckles and long black hairs interpose itself between my head and Martin’s. That’s some sharp clothes you and your girlfriend have on. Where’d you get them? Martin’s voice, behind the arm, said, A friend made them for me. A friend, huh? I leaned forward to look at the body connected to the arm and the voice: it was a young white boy, not more than eighteen, with a thick build and a couple of zits on his forehead. That’s some friend, he was saying, and he squeezed Martin’s shoulders visibly and shook him a little. Martin’s hand tightened around mine. Maybe I ought to get his number from you, give him a call. That’s some nice suit. Martin smiled and said, He works out of Paris. Paris! the boy said loudly. Shit, boys, I don’t think my ma would let me call Paris. For a moment I thought
“boys” referred to Martin and me, but then I heard chuckles and I looked up. Five other boys, about the same age as this one, were standing around. One of them, a black boy whose baggy shirt and pants concealed the shape of his body, said, Johnson, you don’t do nothing else your mother says to, and I don’t see you starting now. All of the boys laughed, and Martin laughed with them. Trying not to move my lips, I said, Let’s go, Martin. No one said anything for a moment, and Martin tightened his squeeze on my hand. The diamond now poked at the skin between two of my fingers. Suddenly Martin said, So you’re Johnson? This is my lover, John. I’m Martin. Something happened then: the three names floated from Martin’s mouth like smoke and dispersed in the dank air of the subway terminal, until they lost meaning, and all at once I realized I knew as little about Martin—and about myself—as I did about this Johnson, and that’s when my fear shifted from him to Martin. You’re lovely, huh? Johnson was saying. One of the other boys said, Hey, lovely, you like it like this? and spun one of his friends around and shot his pelvis against the other’s buttocks. Everyone laughed, including Martin, who laughed easily, and that’s when I had to close my eyes. I concentrated on my hand. Even though I could feel Martin’s diamond clearly, could tell that it was cutting into the web between two of the fingers of my left hand, I couldn’t tell which two. Behind my closed eyes, I heard Martin and the boys, talking, laughing. Occasionally, at a really loud laugh, I opened my eyes to see one of the boys pretending to butt-fuck
another. Martin’s grip on my hand grew tighter and tighter, his laughter louder and louder, and I shut my eyes so hard that colors—like the a.b. tubes’—moved behind my lids. Eventually a rhythm established itself behind the laughter and the half-heard words, a tapping that grew slowly louder until it had the clear sound of wood on flesh, and everyone stopped laughing. I looked up and saw a cop. He smacked his hand with his billy club. Why don’t you get the hell out of here? He was talking to us. To Martin and me, I mean. To Martin and John.