Men on Men 2 by George Stambolian (ed)

Author:George Stambolian (ed) [Stambolian, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Homosexuality, Male—Fiction., Gays Writings—American., short stories, American—Men authors., Men—Fiction.
Publisher: Plume Books, New York
Published: 1988-11-15T05:00:00+00:00

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, we had lunch with Laurent. Because Craig spoke no French and Laurent spoke no English, there was not much conversation. I translated, remedially, between them. Craig did not seem very impressed by Laurent, which disappointed me, and Laurent did not seem very impressed by Craig, which pleased me.

Afterwards, Laurent and I drove Craig to the Gare du Nord, where he was catching a train to Munich. He had relatives there whom he hoped would give him money to spend at least a few weeks in Germany. For a couple of minutes, through me, he and Laurent discussed whether or not he should go to see Dachau. Laurent had found it very moving, he said. But Craig’s only response was, “Uh-huh.”

Then we were saying good-bye, and then he was gone, lost in the depths of the Gare.

On the way back to my apartment I told Laurent about Craig’s rape. His eyes bulged in surprise. “Ton ami,” he said, when I had finished the story, “sa vie est tragique” I was glad somehow, that the rape meant something to Laurent, and for a moment, in spite of all our problems, I wanted to embrace him, to celebrate the fact of all we had escaped, all we hadn’t suffered. But my French wasn’t good enough to convey what I wanted to convey. And Laurent was depressed.

He dropped me off at my apartment, continued on to work. I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting alone indoors, so I took a walk over to the Rue St. Denis and Les Halles. The shops had just reopened for the afternoon, and the streets were full of people—giggly Americans and Germans, trios of teenaged boys.

I sat down in a cafe and tried to stare at the men in the streets. I wondered what it must have been like, that “Hola,” whispered on a busy Madrid sidewalk, that face turning toward him. Was the face clear, vivid in its intent? I think not. I think it was probably as vague and convex as the face of the Genie of the Crystal in Gatlinburg. Then, too, it was the surprise of recognition, the surprise of being noticed; it will do it every time. The Genie of the Crystal, she, too, had wanted Craig, and even then I had urged him on, thinking myself safe in his shadow.

I drank a cup of coffee, then another. I stared unceasingly at men in the street, men in the cafe, sometimes getting cracked smiles in response. But in truth, as Craig has endlessly told me, I simply do not have the patience for cruising. Finally I paid my bill, and then I heard the churchbells of Notre-Dame strike seven. Only five days left in July. Soon it would be time to head up to Montmartre, to the drugstore, where Laurent, like it or not, was going to get my company.

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