Now and Yesterday (26 page)

“Ted Uppman was the Met's Billy Budd when I was growing up,” said Aldebar. “I think he created the part.”

“I envy your having grown up in New York,” said Peter. “I was stuck in a small town upstate.”

Except for their voices, the room was still—the calm of a well-ordered kitchen at rest amplifying the sadness of the occasion: a meeting to discuss Jonathan's will. In attendance, in the library, were Jonathan's lawyer, Mark; Mark's assistant Judith; Jonathan's brother, Ted, who was the chief executor of his will, responsible for Jonathan's real property; and Peter, who was Jonathan's artistic executor and thus responsible for protecting his artistic output. Peter had been asked to step out of the room while they discussed Jonathan's personal bequests of property, artwork, and objects.

“ ‘Theodor Uppman, the American baritone,' ” said Aldebar. “That's the way they always billed him. I guess they wanted to make sure people realized he was American, and not, I dunno, Swedish. They were very proud of the American singers they were turning out, back then.”

“What else did he do?” asked Peter.

“Papageno! Pelléas! Sharpless! And contemporary stuff. He was pretty adventurous.”

Aldebar was an interesting guy, thought Peter—a trained nurse, an amateur bodybuilder, and a connoisseur in a way that generations of young lower- and middle-class gay boys of various cultural backgrounds learned about, then claimed ownership of, the so-called finer things of life.

“He went on playing Billy probably much longer than he should have,” continued Aldebar. “But he kept those athletic good looks that apparently Britten liked so much, and he was terrific in the part. He had all the innocence and trustfulness.”

“Have you always been into opera?”

“High school music teacher—Mr. Sternberg.”

Judith appeared at the kitchen door.

“Peter, will you rejoin us?”

“To be continued,” said Peter, to Aldebar.

In the library, the group was installed in the sofa and chairs that surrounded a pair of midcentury modernist, bentwood coffee tables. The tables were spread with legal papers, notepads, and Judith's sleek laptop. Fingers of late morning sun poked in through the wooden blinds, angling down over Jonathan's collection of antique Japanese pots, which he'd grouped on the built-in cabinet with decorative casualness. Opposite, on a table that was well out of the sunlight, was the Eliot manuscript—something that presumably would go to a museum or a library, sometime in the coming year. The manuscript had been on Peter's mind ever since he decided to give Will a copy of
Four Quartets
. Maybe one day, Peter thought, Jonathan would let us remove the Plexiglas cover and examine the manuscript in detail. In a drawer was a supply of white cotton gloves, for just such occasions.

“One day”?—shit,
thought Peter.
We're talking about his will. By this time next year, someone else will be living in this apartment. All the lovely décor will have been dismantled—not even a year old. Has the place even been photographed?

Peter reclaimed the seat he'd occupied for the first part of the meeting, when they went over Jonathan's wishes for his films and the new grants for documentary filmmakers he was endowing. A foundation was being formed to receive the bulk of Jonathan's estate—around $11 million, excluding the house upstate—and administrate the grants and raise additional funds. Peter was to be a member of the board.

“I think we're in good shape, gentlemen,” said Mark. “The only thing that's left to discuss is the directorship of the foundation. Peter, we've just talked a little bit further about it and would love your input.”

“Would our young friend be interested in the gig, do you think?” said Jonathan, who had been seated in his chair when they arrived that morning and had remained there throughout the meeting.

“Who?” said Peter.

“Will.”

“Will?”

“We need someone who knows the arts and can understand the mission.”

“I . . . gather he was planning to stay in magazines,” said Peter, slightly flummoxed. “Wouldn't you want someone who could run a business?”

“Well, maybe, but . . . ,” began Mark.

“Magazine people have a way of going off and doing something more profitable, eventually—the smart ones, anyway,” interrupted Jonathan. “Maybe Will would be interested in going sooner rather than later.”

“Maybe,” said Peter. “Ask him. You knew him before I did. Are you asking
me
to ask him?”

“No—I'll do that,” said Jonathan. “I just wanted to get your thinking.”

Ted smiled at Peter and gave an approving nod.

“He's a smart guy,” said Peter.

“Mature, responsible?” said Mark.

“As far as I can tell.”

“The mission is simple,” said Mark. “Give away the money, raise more money. And, of course, protect the money.”

“I think he'd be terrific,” said Jonathan. “Young blood—you know.”

“Then you'll have a chat with the young man and let us know?” said Mark.

“Yup,” said Jonathan.

“Good,” said Mark. “Then we're done.”

The group rose and lapsed into small talk. Aldebar appeared as if by telepathic summons and helped Jonathan to rise, then stood close by him.

“Oh, and I hope you'll all be able to make the screening we're doing next month,” said Jonathan. “It's a rough cut—and I hope you won't think me coy when I say I still don't know how it's all going to end.”

Peter, who was checking his iPhone, winced when he overheard that.

“Tom and I will be there,” said Mark, warmly.

“I'm really proud of this one,” said Jonathan.

“Mary and I will fly in, of course,” said Ted. “We wouldn't miss it.”

“Connor says that art made him miss his calling as a movie star,” said Jonathan, with a laugh that turned into a cough. Within seconds, Aldebar was offering him a sip of water.

“No, I'm fine, I'm fine,” said Jonathan. “He's really taking to it, Connor is. A big ham!”

At the door to the apartment, after the others had gone down in the elevator, and while Aldebar was tidying up the library, Peter and Jonathan shared a moment alone.

“Wow,” said Peter.

“Yeah,” said Jonathan.

“How ya doing?”

“Surviving.”

“Good.”

“I don't really do anguish, you know?”

“I know.”

“Probably why I went into documentaries, instead of dramas.”

“Interesting.”

“One foot in front of the other.”

“Oh, yes.”

“So Will—huh?” said Jonathan.

“It's up to you,” said Peter. “You really think he could do something like that?”

“Of course he could. He's smart and responsible. He could probably do anything he sets his mind to. It's not like it's anyone's destiny to be in magazines.”

“I dunno. He might like the glamour of it—the parties, the stars.”

“He might—in which case, he'll say no. He might also want to give away vast amounts of money and do some good in the world.”

“I marvel that you thought of him, honestly.”

Jonathan smiled in a manner Peter thought sly.

“Or is there something else here,” continued Peter, “that I'm not aware of . . . ?”

“No,” chuckled Jonathan. “I just have in mind that great machine that collapsed in the eighties, that used to shift the power ever so gently from the seniors to the freshmen who looked promising.”

“Yeah, that's all gone now.”

“Except that I can damned well do what I want with my money.”

Jonathan said those words more forcefully than anything he'd said in the meeting, and Peter heard so much in them—sadness, bitterness, resolve. He gazed lovingly at Jonathan and then, on an impulse, gathered his friend into a hug and kissed his forehead. It was a shock to feel the frailness of Jonathan's body and to catch the scent of something scalpy, though not precisely unclean, mixed with Jonathan's Black Tourmaline. As Peter gently released his friend, the idea of losing him suddenly seemed more terribly real, and Peter felt a small shudder in his own breathing and an involuntary twinge in the center of his brow, in that spot where the muscles know, before we do, that worry could give way to weeping.

“My brother is being such a prince,” said Jonathan, continuing to steady himself by holding Peter's arm. “Did you notice? He has every right to expect some of that money, but he's being very supportive.”

Peter nodded but said nothing, realizing he needed to try and stay composed.

“And you, good friend—so are you,” continued Jonathan. “This is . . . a strange time, for all of us. Petey, I've been thinking a lot about you. OK, we've just spent the morning talking about reality. So tell me: Whatever happened to the sexual adventurer? You used to be out there for all of us, long after we bonded with our mates and took it off the streets or gave it up entirely. Even when you had boyfriends, you had adventures, right—you and Nick? You told me. So why are you now . . . courting in this way?”

Peter sighed and slumped against the door.

“I don't know,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why prolong this not knowing? Ask the guy, is it a relationship or not? It's so unlike you not to go straight for the answer. If it's not right, let it go. There are plenty of boys out there, if that's what you want.”

There was such concern in Jonathan's voice, when he had so much else to be thinking about! In the space of a second, Peter's face melted into a mask of misery. He felt himself tearing up.

“I don't
know
what I want, Jon,” he said. “I'm afraid.”

Jonathan, surprised, tried to comfort his friend and took his hand.

“But you were never afraid.”

“No, I wasn't,” said Peter, giving in a little to the sobbing. “But I am now.
That's
. . . age. That's what age has done to me.”

They were silent for a moment, then Jonathan spoke.

“Afraid of . . . losing him?”

“No,” said Peter, his eyes closed, as if to prevent more tears. “Afraid of the fucking shame and embarrassment when he says, so very kindly, no, but how flattered he is. Confirming that all this time he's been dreading my saying exactly that. Watching him go very politely through the whole rejection thing and then tell me that he still wants to be friends. And, of course, it's all rehearsed.”

“Would that be so terrible?” Jonathan asked quietly.

Peter shook his head and said nothing, wiping away tears with his fingers.

“Would it kill you?” asked Jonathan.

“No. It wouldn't kill me.”

They stood there for a moment, a dying man comforting a supposedly vital one. And later, when he remembered it, the moment would remind Peter of the time when Harold, home from the hospital for the last time, emaciated and already showing signs of dementia, rose in the middle of the night, in the dark, from the daybed where he'd been sleeping, to bring Peter, who'd awakened coughing, in the bedroom, a glass of water.

He came to the door like a ghost, his eyes closed, meaning to help me.

“Do you need a tissue?” said Jonathan. “Paper towel?”

Peter smirked and stood up straight.

“I'm fine, thank you,” he said. “I can't believe I'm walking into a meeting in forty minutes.”

“Listen,” said Jonathan, “I'm going up to Hudson, from the first of the month on. I'm going to live up there now.”

“Oh.” It was another seismic shock, though Peter had known it was coming.

“You bring your boy up there for a weekend. Promise you will.”

“Sure. That would be nice.”

 

Back in the days when Jonathan's “great machine” was functioning, Peter hadn't understood its workings nor the system behind it. Friends of friends, usually men a little older than he and more successful, asked him to jacket-and-tie lunches and engaged him in genial conversation about this and that; and when they got around to talking about what Peter's career goals might be, other than the poet thing, he never had much to say. He didn't have a plan for his life—though that in itself might well have qualified him for special attention. He didn't know it, but those men were examining him—sometimes in a gentlemanly manner; sometimes lasciviously, as per the loose sexual manners of the time; and sometimes in both ways at once. They wanted to see what he might be capable of, or worthy of, and what they might be able to provide. Yet just as Peter could have become a beneficiary of the machine, the thing broke down, with AIDS. Everyone in books and fashion and antiques and the arts who'd ever taken Peter to lunch died—and he'd often thought that that might be one reason why, having to fend for himself, he'd drifted into his current line.

I'd probably be running some foundation somewhere, myself,
thought Peter, as he strode from Madison Avenue into the lobby of his building, a soaring nave of gleaming marble, glass, and steel.
Giving away grants from some ducky little converted town house in the East Sixties. An office full of good antiques; happy enough—but not really in the game.

The voltage of advertising hit him right in the face that day, as he stepped off the elevator and into the atrium. The girls at the reception desk were smiling a little more magnetically than usual, their voices galvanized as they spoke into headsets, directing calls, while in back of them, on a thirty-foot expanse of video wall, large-scale animations representing the company's biggest clients fluxed with provocative flash. The kids tripping up and down the atrium's jungle-gym stairway and across the main floor seemed a little sparkier than usual. And outside the Gymnasium, a large meeting room off the main reception area, a young woman in dark leggings and a cropped jacket, clearly a member of the client team inside, was standing next to a refreshment table, emitting signals that were apparently terribly important into her cell phone.