The Quirk (16 page)

Christmas was coming, and plans were discussed in Rod’s two households. To him, Christmas was so closely associated with family and big spending and trumped-up goodwill that he was willing to forget it. Patrice had always spent the holiday at his grandmother’s house and wanted Rod to go with him.

“Does she know about–well, about you?” Rod asked.

“The unmentionable?” Patrice laughed. “Not really, but she may have an idea.”

Rod couldn’t see himself playing consort to an old lady’s wayward grandson. Besides, there was Nicole. She had been invited to a stylish house party in a chateau not far from Paris and also wanted to include him. Rod declined. “Go ahead and have a final fling with your fancy friends,” he said bluntly. “Even if I make a fortune, you won’t drag me back to
la vie de château.
”

“But my darling, it’s just a way for us to have a happy Christmas together. I will gladly stay here and have Christmas only for the two of us, but it would be quite expensive to make it gay.”

“Exactly. It’s just another day unless you do it up and spend money. I’d rather work. Go play with the rich folk.”

“You sometimes sound as if you’d never known any rich people. Perhaps they’re not nice in the States. Here, many people have been rich for so long that they don’t realize they’re quite poor now. The chateau will be freezing, but the food will be beautiful, which helps to keep you warm. Oh, darling. You’re so adorable when you’re trying to save me from my wicked friends.”

He laughed, unable to scold her for long, and rose from the table where they’d had dinner. He moved around behind her and unfastened her hair and let it fall in a pale cascade down her back. “There. You look much too young to go anywhere on your own–just the right age to be seduced by an unscrupulous American painter. If we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, I don’t guess one Christmas more or less makes any difference. You say Americans are sentimental. I’m learning to be as realistic as you are. Skipping Christmas is part of the cure. There’s nothing sentimental about the way I want to go to bed with you.”

She rose with light laughter and moved in close against his chest. “I’m glad we’re both realistic about that.”

It was all so new to him–the wonder of their unflagging desire and need for each other, her calm acceptance of their self-imposed conditions, the thrilling unclouded ripening of love even when they didn’t see each other for days at a time. Whenever they came together they seemed to have attained a level of devotion higher than the one where they had left off. His only faintly comparable experience had been with Carol, and that had been so different that it could have happened to somebody else. They had begun with a powerful mutual attraction and had gone nowhere from there.

Carol had admitted to a conflict about premarital sex–she wanted it but felt guilty when she had it–so that he had never really felt sure that they were physically compatible. She expected constant daily attentions of the sort set by convention–dinner dates, flowers, down to never opening a door for herself. She wasn’t interested in what he considered his real work. To her, work was real if it brought in money in comfortable quantities. Thinking of what life might have been like with her, he was stunned by the blessed fortune that had brought him Nicole. He held her and felt their bodies’ unstinting recognition of their right to each other.

“When I’m with you, I never understand how I can possibly spend a night without you,” he said.

“And when I’m with you, I know that when we’re apart we will have to come back to each other, dear man.”

So it was settled that his partner in each household would leave him to his own devices for a few days of the holiday season. He rather fancied the picture of himself working in austere solitude while the world performed the obligatory ritual of celebration around him. He had too much to celebrate to pretend that it had anything to do with a date in the calendar.

He and Patrice decided to have an evening out the night before Patrice was set to go to his grandmother for a stay that had been reduced from a week to two days. Nicole had left that morning. “It’s time I let you out of the kitchen,” Rod said.

“I know just the place I’d like us to have dinner. It will be almost as cheap as eating at home.” For Patrice it was a major event. He knew Rod had been reluctant to be seen with him in public. An occasional film had been the extent of their outside social life. Perhaps having a girl was making him less shy of having people suspect that he might also have a boy, if it could be called that. He had been overjoyed to discover that sex with Rod wasn’t to be cut off after Nicole’s advent, but he kept his response subdued and unobtrusive and let Rod use him to give himself an orgasm. That was all, but when he thought he might have had nothing, it seemed a great deal.

For their evening out he was ready to settle for the restaurant where they weren’t likely to see people they knew, but Rod suggested starting with drinks at the Flore. This was total exposure. Patrice was filled with inner glee.

They were both kept busy nodding and waving as they made their way through the crowded enclosed sidewalk terrace to a vacant table. Rod was so innocently unaware of the sensation they were causing among certain groups that Patrice could hardly keep a straight face. The protective arm was around his shoulders as Rod eased him toward a chair. That would set tongues wagging. Before the dinner hour was over, the whole
quartier
would be agog over
le petit
Valmer’s stunning American.

Their drinks had just been put on the table when François Leclerc pushed into the cramped space beside them and shook hands expressionlessly with both of them. Rod glanced at Patrice and eyed the youth cooly. He saw that the curiously immobile face had good regular features that seemed designed to conceal all signs of life. Rod pictured him stretched out in a casket. He probably would be quite handsome as a corpse. Patrice said something polite but dismissive.

François turned to Rod and spoke in his rapid-fire Americanese. “I haven’t seen you around lately. This kid been keeping you to himself?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rod asked with a warning in his voice.

“Cool it, man. I see his point, but you’re not my type.”

“Lucky for all of us,” Rod said with distaste. The young man struck him again as hard and self-assured and vaguely dangerous. An operator, sharply dressed for the part. He wished he would go away.

“So long as we have it clear I’m not making a pass at you. I don’t want Patrice to get nervous. I’ve been looking out for you recently. I’ve got a hot deal going I thought might interest you. You’ve got dollars, haven’t you?”

“That’s my business. I’m not interest in deals.”

“You might be in this one. I can guarantee to double your money. No risk. All I need is the capital. You give me 500 bucks, and I pay off 1,000 bucks in one week maximum. Ask your cute friend. François Leclerc is known around here. I’m not apt to do a flit.”

Rod glanced again at Patrice who made a slight negative movement of his head. He looked up at Leclerc. “I’m keeping my dollars where I can get at them. Thanks anyway.”

“I might work something special out for you. Think about it. I’m always in and out of here during the day. You can leave a message with the
caissière
.” His face expressionless, he shook hands again with both of them and began to thread his way skillfully through the crowded tables.

Rod turned to Patrice who looked cross. “What was that all about?”

“He shouldn’t speak about his deals to you. He’s probably honest with his partners, but what if he gets caught? He doesn’t think of that.”

“I wouldn’t mind doubling my money. Have you told anybody I’m living with you?

“Certainly not. Nobody–except the concierge.”

“OK.” He gave his arm a squeeze. “The hell with François. Merry Christmas.”

They had a second drink and were getting ready to go to dinner when Rod uttered an exclamation. He half rose and waved an arm and shouted across 100 heads. Patrice saw three youngish men hesitating near the door, turning to identify the source of the shout. They spotted Rod, and then they were all shouting. Rod charged through tables, and the four met in the open runway leading to the inside room. They shook each other and beat on their backs in exuberant greeting. Patrice picked up their drink stubs and trailed along in Rod’s wake, feeling that he might be trampled to death if he got too close. Rod caught sight of him and reached out for him and hugged his shoulders while he introduced him. There were facetious references to mademoiselles and “gay Paree,” and Rod suggested that they move into the main café lounge where there were some empty tables. They settled at one, and Rod called a waiter and ordered scotch for everybody.

Patrice could follow without much difficulty the loud slurred American accents, but there were too many obscure references for him to grasp what was being said. He wasn’t even sure if Rod was glad to see these friends or was putting on an act. He had become someone Patrice had never seen before, a commonplace good-guy American whom he would never dream of picking up in a bar. When a second round of drinks were brought to the table, he realized with consternation that Rod was still giving the orders, still gathering the stubs. He was also getting drunk, as was Patrice. Whiskey didn’t sit well on
pastis.

Patrice waited until they were well into the third round before trying to catch Rod’s eye. The group was growing more boisterous, backs were being slapped again. Rod was laughing a great deal at things that didn’t strike Patrice as funny. There was something forced about his high spirits; it occurred to Patrice that he might want to be extricated from this mindless gathering. Patrice focused his eyes on him as insistently as his spinning head permitted. Rod apparently felt them because he glanced across at him. Patrice leaned forward.

“Shouldn’t we be thinking about dinner?” he said, trying to drive his voice under the general hubbub for Rod alone.

“Hell, no,” Rod shouted. “This is a reunion. Drink up. Everything’s on me.”

“Know something, Roddy?” one of the men asked. “I think your little friend here is a fairy. Looks like a fairy to me.”

“Leave him alone,” Rod said. “We’re in love with each other. Nothing wrong with that.” He joined in a great guffaw.

Patrice shrank from them. Big flushed faces seemed to loom over him, leering grotesquely in close-up like an old German film. A delayed shock hit him, followed by rare anger. He stood decisively, staggered slightly, and found his balance. “I must go now,” he said to Rod.

“Sit down,” Rod ordered. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He made a grab at him, but Patrice stepped out of reach.

“Home,” he said over his shoulder as he turned away. Once outside he began to curse under his breath. He hadn’t known he could come so close to hating Rod. Anger kept tears at bay and sobered him. What had come over his thrilling lover? He had turned into a coarse and unattractive stranger. Worse, he was behaving like a fool. He must have already spent enough for several days’ living. When it came to money Patrice had the right to be indignant. He was making less than he had with Gérard, and the few hundred francs he managed to knock off Rod’s food bills every week represented a real sacrifice. He had had to dig into his savings on several occasions. He had given up buying anything for himself. They had explicitly pledged themselves to do everything they could to prolong Rod’s stay. It was a betrayal of their understanding for either of them to throw money away in a bar. Anger seethed in him and kept his pace brisk until he got home.

Alone in the apartment so filled with Rod’s presence, he was gripped with anxiety. How long would Rod go on? Should he have stayed with him and tried to limit his folly? His heart began to beat rapidly. He almost feared Rod’s return. He had discovered that he wasn’t so besotted with love that he couldn’t make a stand about an important issue. He withdrew nervously to the bedroom and set about making as much as possible of packing in order to kill time. He was bitterly disappointed about their evening, but if he let himself think about that, anger would dissolve into self-pity. He yanked a pair of slacks out of the armoire but decided they weren’t suitable for the country and carefully hung them up again.

He was still trying to turn the selection of two shirts into a major enterprise when heard the front door slam. His heart gave a leap, and peace descended on him. Rod called his name. He answered and dropped the shirts and headed cautiously down the corridor. Rod was standing in front of the fireplace, swaying slightly, looking disheveled but familiar. Everything in Patrice dissolved into happy relief at his lover’s return.

“What do you think you were up to?” Rod demanded belligerently. “I thought we were supposed to have dinner together.”

“I wasn’t sure we could afford dinner.”

“Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?” Rod’s tongue tripped over the words.

“I know we can’t afford to buy whiskey at the Flore.”

“We? I didn’t notice you paying for anything. You owe me for two
pastis.
”

“We can afford that.”

“What’s all this ‘we’ business? It’s my money, isn’t it? He was in a rage with himself and didn’t need Patrice to tell him what an ass he’d been. “Jesus. I’m sick of counting every penny like a miserly shopkeeper. I’d rather spend it all and forget it. It’d probably do me good to starve to death.”