Flight Dreams (13 page)

“Whoa,” says Neil, reining in the conversation, “if you get me talking about
that,
I could blather all night.”

Manning reminds him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Rain begins to fall heavily outdoors, but there is no wind to drive it, and it streams down the huge panes of the window. Reflected light from within the apartment dances on the slithering fingers of water, black against the lakefront sky. After an awkward silence broken only by the sound of rain, Manning says, “It’s a terrible thing to admit, but I’m glad Roxanne couldn’t make it tonight. I wanted to get to know you better. I can’t quite believe you’re here.”

Neil steps to Manning and spreads his arms to hold him in a clumsy embrace, both of them careful not to spill their drinks. As Neil gazes over Manning’s shoulder toward the opposite wall, something catches his eye. “My God, Mark. It’s a Bird!”

“What?” Alarmed, Manning turns to look, jostling both drinks.

“The painting. It’s a Clarence Bird,” he explains, whisking vodka from his sleeve while walking over for a closer look. “Wherever did you get it?”

“A little gallery not far from here. You mean you’ve
heard
of this guy?”

“Of course. He’s awfully significant—at least he
will
be.”

“So I’ve been told,” Manning says with a wry laugh.

Neil shoots him a knowing glance. “A shrewd investment, Mark.”

“It wasn’t an investment,” he insists. “I bought it because I like it. I’ve never bought a painting before, but I see something in this one that speaks to me, that actually has something to
say.
Listen, Neil: I’m a writer, and I work with other writers, lots of ‘word people,’ from reporters and editors to lawyers and politicians. Most of them seem to think that the only worthwhile task for the mind is to make one word follow another. The brain feeds the mouth or the pen, yet the eye never seems to feed the brain. I haven’t known many artists—painters and sculptors or even architects—but I’ve always assumed that they don’t think very clearly, that they must be slaves to the realm of emotions. As a result, I’ve been skeptical of what artists try to foist upon us as their ‘work.’ You go to a gallery and read the little cards posted next to each artifact, or you wade through the ‘statement’ the artist has written for the show catalog, and the only way you can react is: My God, what garbage! Incredibly, these statements seem to be given as much weight as the art itself. It’s nothing more than academic drivel intended to justify meaningless junk by making it appear profound. I’m sorry if I seem close-minded in this attitude. I’ve sincerely tried to understand the art of our times, but I can’t. And I won’t pay lip service to a sham. I wish I had the background to appreciate the art of other ages, because I sense there’s something there that’s simply lacking today. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not so naive as to suggest that it’s only valid to paint pictures that
look like
pictures. I’m sure that visual abstraction
can
be meaningful and moving—after all, the power of mental abstraction is among the most extraordinary of all human traits. But I’ve rarely seen an artist pull it off convincingly. Splash painting—finger painting—is a diversion of children, nothing more. It is not art. Does it all even matter? I wish I understood.”

Manning falls silent. He has said far more than he intended, and he fears that Neil may be offended by views that seem ignorant or, worse, didactic.

Neil has listened carefully. His features reveal no reaction to Manning’s words, and the pause in their conversation is magnified by mutual anticipation. Neil decides that it’s time to share a few ideas of his own.

“You
do
understand,” he assures Manning, “far more deeply than most self-proclaimed artists ever begin to grasp. I went to art school to become a designer, to
get a degree
as an architect. I attended classes side-by-side with others who were there to
get a degree
as a painter, sculptor, printmaker, what-have-you. All the degree guarantees, of course, is that we’ve been exposed to a regimen of techniques and, one may hope, a body of aesthetic thought. That’s it, kid. An art degree means nothing else. Yet art in practice has become a purely academic discipline—and the result speaks for itself. Artists go to school; they’re taught to be open-minded and sensitive; they learn that method and logic and thought itself are alien to the visual arts. The only purpose left for words is to support the next artistic trend with rhetorical bullshit that replaces meaning with a skin of profundity. It
is
a hoax. It leaves me frustrated and bewildered. And the one question that gnaws at me every time I stroll through a gallery or pick up a copy of
Art News
is this: Just how seriously do these people take themselves, deep down inside when they’re alone in bed at night with the lights off and no other stimulus except the churning of their own brains? Do
they
believe the things they paint? Do
they
believe the things they say to support their art? You know what scares me, Mark? I think they do believe it—
all
of it. They willingly submitted to the indoctrination, they swallowed it whole, and now they’re playing the game themselves.
That,
all too often, is the art of our age.”

Manning’s green eyes pierce Neil’s with a clarity and a directness that shoot through Neil and rest in his stomach. The penetration of one mind by the other is so complete and reciprocal that neither of them can evade its carnal overtones.

“Thank you,” says Manning.

Neil doesn’t ask, What for? He knows, as Manning does, that something has
happened.
He recognizes that they have achieved a level of communication that embraces words and thoughts, emotions and intellect. As if emerging from a daze, Neil asks, “Where were we?”

“I was showing you the apartment,” Manning reminds him. “Not that there’s much to show. Like most lofts, it’s basically one big room—and as you can see, it’s nearly empty.” He waves an arm to encompass the whole condominium, which lacks all furniture other than a bed and a small dining table with its chairs.

“I love raw space,” says Neil. “Must be the architect in me. There’s so much you can
do
with this. The fixtures and built-ins are first-rate. Mind if I snoop around?”

In addition to the entrance, the apartment contains only two other doors, located on the wall behind the bed, flanking it. One leads to the bathroom. Indicating the other, Neil asks, “What’s this?”

“Closet,” says Manning. “It’s huge. Take a look.” Then he adds, “But please, no closet jokes.”

Neil rolls his eyes, then opens the door, which switches on a light. Inside is a large windowless room that could easily double as a storeroom or even a study. It contains Manning’s clothes, and Neil feels a tinge of excitement in stealing this intimate glimpse of his new friend’s life. Manning’s wardrobe is arranged, as Neil would have guessed, with neatness and precision. There is an inordinate number of khaki slacks. Shirts, all white or pastel, are grouped according to hue, and an ironing board stands ready for last-minute touch-ups. The room’s sole element of clutter is the well-worn pair of Reeboks tossed in the corner with a pair of nylon shorts. “I see you’re a runner,” says Neil, closing the closet door.

“I wouldn’t quite call myself a ‘runner,’” Manning tells him, “if that implies I’m avid about it—because I’m not. Now and then, on a beautiful day, or at the end of a bad one, I like to pound off two or three miles—four or five if I’m ambitious. But I have no interest in distance and even less in speed.”

“A sensible approach,” Neil approves. “We should run together sometime, although it’s been raining since I arrived last week. Here’s a better idea: Maybe you could visit Phoenix this winter. It’s
plenty
dry there, and we could run in the mountains every morning. It’s wonderful—to be up early, under a warm winter sun, sweating—especially when you know that everyone back home is freezing.”

“That sounds great,” says Manning. “I haven’t taken a winter vacation in years. We’ll see.”

“But,” adds Neil, raising a note of caution, “there’s not much
else
to do there. I suppose we could watch TV—there’s our local crackpot evangelist of the airwaves, Brother Burt—
he’s
always good for a laugh.” Neil’s playful tone now turns suggestive. “Or we could invent our
own
activities.”

Manning repeats, “We’ll see.” He checks his watch. “Let me get you a fresh drink, then I’d better get dinner going. Care to help?”

“Natch.”

Manning busies himself in the kitchen, putting Neil in charge of the table, which must first be cleared of some paperwork. Manning explains over his shoulder, “I made copies of the plans of the loft, and I’ve been trying to work up a few ideas—without success, I’m afraid. Just stow all that under the bed.”

“Hmm.” Neil finds a clean set of the plans and puts it aside, along with an extra copy of a document titled “Codes and Covenants.” He slips these into one of his shopping bags before putting the rest of the material away.

While Neil fusses with the table setting, Manning asks, “Would you like to put on some music?”

“Thanks,” replies Neil, “but I’ve had my fill of it this week. You know how carried-away Rox can get. Let’s keep things quiet tonight.”

“Amen.”

Within a half hour, they are seated at the little table together. Manning has prepared a simple steak dinner, supplemented with brioches and a
grand cru
Bordeaux from Roxanne’s CARE package. Candles are lit, flowers are arranged, and the rain beyond the windows is now driven in sheets by a gusty wind. The cozy setting is overtly romantic, but the conversation is limited to small talk about the food, the weather, the missing heiress.

Neil eats his last bite of tenderloin, sets down his fork, and dabs his lips with his napkin. Fingering the stem of his wineglass, he asks, “Why did you invite me here tonight?”

“To see the loft …”

“Yes?”

“There may have been other reasons. I’m not sure. Why did you
come
here tonight?”

“To see the loft. To find out why you asked me. Most important, to get to know you better.” He pauses before getting to the point. “I like you, Mark, and if there’s any kind of relationship that’s possible between us, I’m interested. More than interested. But: I will not seduce you.”

Manning grins. “Are you sure you haven’t already?”

“Not actively. I’m sure of that. I’ve been too careful. If somehow you interpret my friendliness or my personality or even my very presence as a form of seduction—that’s just
your
reaction to the way I am.”

“That is exactly my reaction to the way you are.”

“May I ask you something directly, Mark? Have you ever had sex with a man?”

“No.”

Neil looks at him skeptically.

“Truly, Neil, I haven’t—not as an adult. Sure, lads play around, and I was no different, but I’ve never done it in a mature, willful sense.”

“You’ve never even been approached?” asks Neil, his voice colored with disbelief as he openly sizes up Manning.

“Yes, I have. Just once.”

“Thank God,” says Neil. “I’d be amazed if no one had ever
tried.
”

“A guy got suggestive at a party once. I was repulsed, so I left.”

“Repulsed by the suggestion?”

“No, by the person. He was drunk and obnoxious and … well, not very attractive.”

“Ohhh,” Neil says softly, drawing out the monosyllable as he turns his head to gaze at the rain, thinking. Then he turns back to Manning, peers at him, and asks with a voice that sounds almost accusing, “Suppose this guy had been sober and pleasant and built like an Adonis. Then what?”

“I’ve no idea. Under the
real
circumstances, his suggestion was unthinkable. Maybe I’ve been kidding myself, but I never seriously weighed the possibility of sex with a man—until I met you.” Manning stops short. Though he has picked his words carefully, he is stunned to hear the admission from his own mouth.

Neil asks, “What are your qualms?”

“Times have changed a lot since I was young. There’s AIDS, of course, and there are still prejudices, but being gay doesn’t seem to have the stigma it used to. Now they say it’s in your genes, and in some circles it’s out-and-out fashionable. Still, there’s something about sexual identity that’s deep and, yes, irrational—but it’s real, almost tangible. People always want a label. They think of themselves as straight or gay or maybe somewhere in between, but they always define it. I’ll soon turn forty, Neil, and I’ve never before dealt with the prospect of consciously labeling myself gay—or any of the other names they call you. Do I want you? Do I want to lie with you and indulge a nagging curiosity?
Yes.
I’d be a liar if I told you—or myself—otherwise. But the label scares me. Even if no one else knew, I would. I’d be waiting there with the label, and I don’t know what it would do to me. This fear must strike you as silly or trivial, and I’d even understand if you found it insulting. I mean,
you
seem to have no difficulty coping with all this.”

“This may come as a shock, Mark, but your label-crisis works both ways. I’d hate like hell for people to label me straight—a het, a
breeder.
That would be an identity crisis every bit as deep and real as the one you’re flirting with. So I understand your concerns. I’m glad you’ve raised them because I would
not
want to be the person who saddles you with confusion or guilt. You mean far too much to me. That’s why I won’t seduce you. It would be too easy. Too easy for me to get away with and too easy for you to dismiss. When it happens—if it happens—there’ll be the recognition that complete, powerful, lusty sex involves a certain responsibility and perhaps even commitment.
If
it happens.”

Neil stops talking and searches Manning’s face for some reaction to his words. Manning peers back, at first with a blank expression, then he smiles.

“Good,” he says. “If it happens, it’ll be just as you’ve described. There’ll be no room for self-doubt, let alone guilt.” Manning swallows hard, not daring to meet Neil’s stare as he continues. “I hope it happens. But wanting things is a far cry from having them. There’s always a price. And the price may be too high for me.”