The Quirk (12 page)

“I think you better.” Rod sat on the sofa and prepared himself for lurid revelations. He knew very little about the boy, but he had seemed so open and easy and cheerful that it had never occurred to him that there was anything in particular to know. He hadn’t seemed secretive so much as genuinely uninterested in talking about himself. Rod wasn’t in the habit of grilling people. He glanced at his easel at the end of the room and wondered if this heavenly studio was going to be snatched away so soon. He didn’t see how he could stay here with a maniac pounding down the door. He watched Patrice sit in the chair by the fire and saw that his hands were still shaking slightly. “OK, tell me,” he ordered.

“I have told you almost all the facts,” Patrice said, pleading for understanding with his eyes. “One is not very nice. You know I was sent to Paris when I was 15. I thought of the man I was sent to as my father. He immediately made me his lover. That is why I was there. I work for him now. That was he.” Patrice dropped his eyes, and there was another silence.

“I see,” Rod said stiffly, wondering what right he had to question him. He decided that bed gave him the rights. “Are you still his lover?”

Patrice’s head shot up with protest, and he dropped his eyes again. “You shouldn’t have to ask that. I haven’t seen him since–how long? Since before we met. Almost two weeks. But not his lover for long before that.”

“You work for him but you haven’t seen him?”

“He has many business affairs. The gallery is only one of them. I don’t have to see him often about work. I have avoided him.”

“He apparently doesn’t like that,” Rod said, finding humor in the situation despite the menace of an unknown world. “Does this place belong to him?”

“No.” His eyes met Rod’s with the honesty of anger. “He helped me get it, but it’s mine. He may try to take it away from me now. I don’t know if he can, but he is very powerful, very cruel. He frightens me.”

“What about the bit about secret lovers? Aren’t lovers often secret? Private, certainly. Especially in your case, I should think.”

“He expects me to tell him. He has taught us–me,” he corrected himself hastily. “He has taught me to tell him everything about sex. He never wanted me to be faithful, only to tell about it. He likes to hear all the details. I will never tell him about you. That’s the trouble. It makes him angry not to know. He likes to watch.”

“Jesus.” A little chill of revulsion ran down Rod’s spine, the sound of the voice still in his ears. He gazed at Patrice. In the flicker of firelight he looked very young and innocent. His heart went out to him for having been subjected to such a training. At 15, for God’s sake. “You’ve let him get away with this?” His indignation was directed at the older man, but the reproach included the boy.

“I have never known what it is to be in love. Little things long ago. Not truly, so none of it seemed to matter. I have been very wrong until now. I almost believed him when he taught me that love is nothing, only pleasure. I’m not good at hiding things from him. I thought of giving up my job. Now I have no choice.”

“But this is crazy. Your talking about giving up your bed for me was bad enough. I’m not going to let you lose your job on my account.”

“It
is
a very good job,” Patrice admitted with a touch of pride.

“Then why don’t you tell him the truth? Well, it
is
the truth. Can’t you tell him I’m not queer and that you like me as a painter and want to help me by giving me a place to work? Hell, I’m willing to tell him myself if it would make things easier for you.”

“No, I must be free to see him whenever he wishes, to entertain him with my lovers. He will give my job to somebody else whenever he learns I’m no longer what he wants me to be. I can get another, maybe not so good.”

“Wait a minute,” Rod said, studying the boy thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I’ve got this straight. Are you saying a man who’s been more or less a father to you would throw you out if you won’t let him watch what you do in bed?”

“You see why I cannot go on working for him?”

“Yes, but I don’t like this happening on account of me.” The boy was finally displaying the strength of character he had sensed in him all along and illustrating an unexpected kinship between them; they were both engaged in the discovery of their true selves. If his being here compensated for whatever the boy was losing, he damn well wouldn’t leave the field free for “the Voice.” “What about the other thing. This place. Do you really think you might lose it?”

“He frightened me. I feel better now. I will fight very hard if he tries to take it. It is for you, for us. If you weren’t here, I would care little if he takes it.”

“Is there anything else? Are you dependent on him in other ways?”

“Until I was 21, in every way of course. Then I wanted a place of my own, and he let me have it because he thought he had trained me to follow his ways. I thought so too, but I also knew I wanted something else. Now, very quickly, just in the last two weeks, I found out what it was. He will think me very foolish and perhaps I am, but I’m also happy for the first time in my life.”

“I take it I won’t solve your problems by getting the hell out of here.” Their eyes met. The dismay and vulnerability in Patrice’s made Rod regret having tried to make light of it. “How did he get hold of you in the first place? Is he a relative?”

“He was my father’s comrade during the war–in the Resistance. They were blood brothers, heroes. My parents left me to him to be my guardian.”

“They seem to have made a slight error in judgment.”

“Something changed after the war, I think. I don’t know what. He had made a cult of evil. Is that right? Do you say cult?”

“Sure. I know what you mean. He sounded as mad as a hatter.”

“Perhaps. I don’t want to be evil. I would rather be foolish with you.”

At his most serious, something mischievous lurked in Patrice, and Rod smiled fondly at him. “Come here, monkey,” he said.

Patrice sprang up. It was over. Rod’s questions had made it easy for him to avoid lying. His one slip had given him a fright, but he had recovered himself in time. The dreadful moment had passed, and Rod was still here. This was the real beginning of a new life, and Rod would never have more than an inkling of the old. He sat beside his lover, confident of being able to bear his intent scrutiny. “I’m here,
chéri,
” he said.

Rod ran a hand over Patrice’s hair and toyed with the waves on his brow. The yearning in the boy was almost tangible, a yearning for his love to be met with equal love, a longing for passionate lips on his. He could give him only a fitful semblance of what he wanted, but he wouldn’t betray the trust in his eyes. Patrice was counting on him to rescue him from whatever ugliness he had been living with. He leaned to him and planted an affectionate kiss on Patrice’s forehead. He felt an ecstatic tremor in the boy as he did so. He sat back. “I didn’t quite bargain for all this,” he said musingly, “but it’s obvious I haven’t paid enough attention to you. I haven’t even bothered to ask you what you’ve been doing the few times you’ve come home late. Tell me.”

“I see friends. I go to the cinema.”

“Are your friends all
comme ça?
”

“Most are.”

“I’m not interested in details, but do you have sex with them? Having posed the question, although he hadn’t given it any thought before, he wanted suddenly and unreasonably for the little he could give to be enough.

“At the cinema?” Patrice rolled his eyes comically. “No,
chéri.
It doesn’t matter if you care or not. I can be only with you. I’m yours. I told you there would be no boys. Someday, I will go to bed only with boys who remind me of you. I don’t think there will be many.”

Rod ran an arm along Patrice’s slight shoulders and gave them a squeeze. He was apparently going to be a good influence. He felt an odd paternal tenderness for the boy. An orphan. A kid who desperately needed a father. Judging from tonight’s revelation, Patrice’s emotional makeup probably led him to find passion in a father figure. If he were going to be a father figure, he hoped he’d be a better one than the madman at the door. “I guess after all this it would be pretty silly to say I’d go if it would help you. The main thing is, don’t let my being here make you do anything you wouldn’t do if you were on your own. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I understand,
chéri.
If I fall madly in love with a boy who is madly in love with me, we’ll put you out here on the sofa.” Patrice’s sense of fun came bubbling to the surface and reminded them that the evening had been planned as a party. Flames leaping in the hearth and replenished glasses of wine revived their sense of well-being.

Their talk moved on to more familiar subjects, but Rod knew that the incident had marked their relationship and consecrated their living together. He was getting in deeper but not necessarily deeper than he was ready to go. When he picked up seriously with a girl, Patrice would find himself real lovers quickly enough.

Later, when they were in bed Rod made a conscious effort to extend the limits beyond which he couldn’t go. He had been sparing in his caresses, but he found that with the growth of affection, his hands could find pleasure in fondling the body he possessed. He couldn’t kiss him on the mouth or touch the part of him that made him a male, but he nuzzled his neck and bit his shoulders and heard his boy cry out exultantly. He felt rewarded for his effort. He had added something to their plan that wasn’t strictly mechanical.

Patrice walked out of his job on Monday without seeing Gérard again. He checked with the management of his apartment building and found, as he had expected, that his lease was in order. Even if Gérard resorted to his most high-handed tactics, bribery and the threat of blackmail, he would have to go through the courts. Patrice had nothing to worry about for a year or two. He did worry about being unemployed, but he reported cheerfully to Rod that evening that he had another job lined up, counting on good friends, ex-lovers, and his well-known connection with Gérard to make it true. He wouldn’t mind digging into his modest savings as long as they lasted to prevent Rod from noticing any change in their standard of living. His optimism was rewarded, and the following week he was back at work not far from Gérard’s Left-Bank gallery.

For Rod, life had become rather like a dress rehearsal for a smoothly functioning, hardworking marriage. He no longer felt himself the beneficiary of Patrice’s generosity but an integral partner in the household. He suggested, to Patrice’s delight, that they have dinner at home together regularly. Spending so much time close to his work kept Rod marvelously free of distractions, but he assured himself that he wouldn’t let it turn into too much of a routine. An artist had to travel light, without too many attachments. He was already almost slavishly attached to Patrice’s cooking. An engraved invitation from Lola to what he guessed would be another grand party seemed like a signal to finally do something about Nicole. Life was so well-organized now that he could risk stirring things up a bit.

One morning after picking up his mail from the hotel, he went down the street to the
tabac
and called her. He half expected her to snub him for his two weeks’ delay. But when he identified himself, she sounded pleased, and they quickly settled on a lunch date for a few days later. She remembered the name of his hotel, and Rod suggested meeting her there to save her the bother of writing down Patrice’s address.

He was more elated by the date than he felt he had any reason to be. He was still smiling to himself when he turned into the rue de Verneuil and saw a familiar face approaching. He greeted the youth amiably before he remembered that it was the queer called François something-or-other that both he and Patrice had spoken to the night of the Pagode. Patrice had been interested in Rod’s knowing him; he understood why now. He adopted a more guarded manner as the youth stopped in front of him.

“Hi there. I saw you the other night with that Valmer kid.”

“That’s right,” Rod agreed, wondering why he had bothered to stop.

“He’s quite a guy isn’t he? Sensational in the sack.”

Rod stiffened. Patrice had been frank about his past, but he didn’t like being confronted with it. The youth spoke harsh, fluent, slightly inaccurate Americanese that grated on his nerves. “Is he?” he said coldly.

“If you don’t know, Patrice must be losing his touch. He’s got an in with some of the wildest action in town. Haven’t you been to the club?”

“Not yet.” Rod lingered in spite of himself in case there were to be further revelations about his bedmate. He congratulated himself for not having told anybody about his move; if it were known, he would probably be the prey of every queer in town. It gave him the creeps.

“He knows how to pick ’em. I’ll say that. You’re not only a looker, but I hear you’re rich too and big buddies with your new president.”

Thinking of the animosity that prevailed between his family and the Kennedys–something to do with business dealings he had never bothered to understand–Rod couldn’t suppress brief laughter. “You’ve heard wrong. I’m sure as hell not rich, and I’ve seen Kennedy around at parties, but I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Maybe when I was drunk. I’m not sure.”

“That so? I heard you went to school with him.”

“The same school for a while. Not at the same time. He’s a lot older than I am.” Rod was puzzled by himself. Why did he go on talking to this character? He refused to acknowledge him by actually looking at him; his gaze slid across him. He was aware that he was sharply dressed and that his face was curiously cold and expressionless. He was pleased by evidence that he was known and talked about, even erroneously, in his adopted village, but he didn’t particularly want to be known by types like this. “I’ve got to be going,” he said.