A Young Man in Paris

A Young Man in Paris by Sophia Deri-Bowen Dreamspinner Press www.dreamspinnerpress.com Copyright ©2011 by Sophia Deri...

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A Young Man in Paris by Sophia Deri-Bowen

Dreamspinner Press www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright ©2011 by Sophia Deri-Bowen First published in 2011, 2011 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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CONTENTS Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine ****

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1923 was the summer I fell in love with Alexander Montrose. I suppose I could say it was the summer I met my soul mate, but I have little poetry in my soul. That which I do have, however, was spent upon Alex. Nearly sixty years have passed since that summer, and I am an old man and Alex is gone, but here at least is our story, set down for all time. It must start, briefly, with me arriving in Paris on the first day of June, in that year 1923. Don't let the overblown beauty of the cherry blossoms fool you; Paris is at her most gorgeous, most lush, and most inviting when in the full of summer. Or so I had been told. At eighteen I was still a boy, naive and inexperienced, particularly when it came to women. The girls at home dazzled me and tied my tongue, but the boys at home, especially the farmer's sons—still lithe and slender, tanned and muscled from their work—ah, they had quite a different effect on me. Young as I was, I still knew better when David (not, of course, his real name) and I met in the hayloft, sharing kisses and gropes, a kind of awkward, adolescent tenderness where neither of us quite knew what to do. It was very wicked of us, or so we had been taught, but that had been a summer of unparalleled pleasure. Less fond are my memories of early that spring, when David's eye was caught by a buxom, brazen young lass, and he threatened to tell everyone of what we'd done together—of what I had done. It was no longer safe for me at home, and so I packed up what little I could call mine in the world, kissed my parents, and set off for Paris to become a tutor in 4


Latin. For that was going to be my new vocation. I was always particularly good at the language, and I had hoped at one time to lend my skills to the Church, despite having no real calling, or even particular belief. It would be more lucrative, and more comfortable to my bruised conscience, to tutor young gentlemen in Paris on the mysteries of intricate grammar. I could teach during the day and pursue my own pleasures at night. Such pleasures as they were; I and my broken heart had come to prefer my books and, at most, a corner in a quiet cafe. I did not speak much and had few friends, but that was all right in those first days. And so that was my life, a modest one, but contented enough. I found a cold-water flat on the Left Bank, as so many others did. I had learned French already, but remained steadfastly British even in bohemian Paris. My work was unchallenging but paid enough, and I could not complain. My personal life was as I wished it to be in those days: quiet, private, dedicated to learning. On Sundays I would take long walks about the city. Paris was wholly open to me, and though I allowed myself only a small part of her, there was contentment enough in my life. And then came Alex.

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Chapter One In Which I Disgrace Myself Far from showing Paris at her best, the weather was dank and drear, with rainstorms breaking up the low-lying thunderclouds. It was an utterly inauspicious, unromantic day, and I was in a similar mood. We met on the stairway between the first and second floors. I had a tiny room on the second and highest floor. The slope of the roof meant that I couldn't stand fully upright in half the flat, but it was beautiful and sunny, and I had a view only of the sky and other rooftops. I did not much like other people in those days, and being so far away from the street made me happy. Alex lived just below me. He had just moved in, I was sure. I would have remembered meeting that golden man before, even in the foul mood I was that day. He was beautiful, but so was everyone in Paris in those days. We must have made a picture together, myself with my black hair all in careful waves, eyes such a dark brown you can't tell pupil from iris unless you look closely, and skin gone far too pale from staying indoors all day. Alex bore shining red-gold hair and blue eyes. Sun and moon, we were. "Bonjour!" he chirped, and I nodded back. "Ehm. Are you... vous etes le... l'homme d'Angleterre?" he asked hopefully, in broken French. 6


"An Englishman?" I found myself illogically irritated by his horrible language skills. "Yes." "Oh! Oh. I'm Alex. Alexander Montrose. I live just below you, I think." "Michael Clifton. Pleased to meet you." Although, in truth, I wasn't, and he probably knew it. I was tired, wet from the rain, and in no mood to converse with one of my countrymen. "Er. Pleased to meet you as well." Alex visibly wilted, although, bless him, he tried. "Are you free? For a pot of tea just now?" "No. Good day." And, in the most impolite way possible, I stomped off. It's a miracle the man ever spoke to me again. It had been a pretty dreadful day, but that was no excuse to be a scrub. It took a full night's sleep to feel properly ashamed, though, and to leave the man a note under his door on my way to work. Alex, Was awful to you yesterday. I quite understand if you want to write me off, but if you would like to join me in a cup of tea at four today, I should much appreciate it. Either way, please accept my apologies. Michael I came home early that day, the weather not improved one bit, but my mood slightly lightened at least. I heated water for tea and set out the little cakes I'd bought for us with the last of my week's pay. I had very little money in those days but could still eat well, although real meals had become a bit scarce. One could eat very well on little money, but money was still needed. Even in Paris, dreams were not sufficient. 7


At exactly five minutes after four, when the tea had brewed to perfection, there was a tentative knock on my door. "Alex." I let him in, the both of us probably sporting the same shy smile. Alex certainly was. "Thank you. I was an absolute beast to you yesterday, and I'm so sorry." He grinned, and I went light-headed for a moment. I must have been terribly hungry. "Don't give it another thought, please. We all have bad days." He held up a paper packet. "Ah. I bought us some croissants." "Then we'll have a real feast," I said, very pleased. I'd not had much of a lunch, and no breakfast that day. Best to fill up on anything for dinner, even if it was sweets. The Bastonnets were to pay me the next day, and then I would be able to afford a proper meal. "Please, come in. It's not much...." He laughed and sat at the tiny table against one wall. "It's fine, Michael. Thank you for inviting me." I couldn't think of an answer to that that didn't involve lots of hemming and hawing and acting like a proper idiot, so I settled for serving us tea and setting our combined little sweets on a plate. We tried to be gentlemanly, but everything was so good, and, for my part, I was so very hungry that we concentrated solely on not completely wolfing down our little meal for some time. "How long have you been in France?" Alex finally asked, when we'd satisfied ourselves enough. 8


"Not very long—just two months or so, really. When did you escape?" Alex startled, then laughed perhaps too quickly. "Oh. Ah, just a few days ago. I'm a writer," he explained. "Mostly for newspapers and magazines. And since Paris is the fashionable place, to Paris I came." And, indeed, so many were pouring into the city in those years. Alex was hardly alone, writing about the romantic city the whole world was in love with. I still, today, think that he wrote about her best of all of them, described her restaurants and streets and little stories as they were, not as others wanted them to be. "So I hear." I shrugged. I was never very sociable. "Forgive me, I'm going to be a dreadful source for you. I spend my days working and the rest of the time with my books." And my paints, but what good was that to mention? I never sold anything and could not paint to the modern tastes. Alex's eyes lit up at the mention of books. "Ah, that I can understand...." "Then you must go to Shakespeare and Company," I said, forgetting to be shy in my excitement at finally being useful. "It isn't far from here. And it's magnificent. And," I added, remembering the luminaries I'd caught glimpses of, "Sylvia, the owner, she knows everyone. She will surely be able to introduce you to people, give you what you need for writing." "Michael, thank you. I can write a story out of anything, but I need something to get me started." He saluted me with his cup of tea and smiled, very sweetly. "What work do you do?" 9


"I tutor in Latin, the classics." I shrugged. "A bit dull, but it's a living." I searched desperately for something polite to say. "What have you written for? Would I have read anything of yours?" "Honestly, I doubt it." he admitted. "I've not sold much, and what I have has been to American newspapers. Here, maybe...." Alex sighed, and looked out the window. "Here, everything is so different." He looked very young, then, the summer sunlight coming in and painting his hair with gold as he gazed out of my window onto the city laid out below us. "It is," I said, the "Thank God" not actually appended but, I hoped, understood. "I paint, too." It was an almost guilty admission; I had no talent, and I knew it. What right did I have to pretend I was creative too? But that had been a part of what brought me to this city, and I knew even then that I could not hide things from Alex. Of course, he became an open book to me, so I suppose all was fair in the end. "Do you?" His eyes lit up, and I think I lost my heart without knowing it. "May I see?" "Oh! I mean, I'm no good." "So? May I see?" Well, I had got myself into this, so it was up to me to get myself out, so to speak. There was a little stack of paintings against the far wall of my bedroom, the room itself so small that there was hardly space for the bed and wardrobe, let alone a little decoration. I selected one of the canvases (they were all about the same, pretty and uninspiring) and brought it out to Alex. 10


"Oh. Oh, Michael. Such a lovely little beach." He examined the scene, one showing low tide, with fishing boats leaning in the sand like old men who have not quite drunk themselves unconscious. "It's delightful." "Well, you're certainly not an art critic." I shrugged and took the canvas when he handed it back, but I was careful when I leaned it against the wall. "I paint for my own pleasure, and I am well aware of it. But thank you." Alex bowed his head a little and smiled. "You're very welcome. And pleasure is as good a reason as any." He visited with me a little while longer, until the tea was long gone, and we bid each other happy goodbyes that first day. It seems a shame that I didn't recognize friendship when I saw it. Not until my own stupidity forced me to, anyway. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two In Which I Disgrace Myself Further I suppose I could blame work for keeping me from talking to Alex again. In reality, it was the fact that I was horribly, painfully shy, and disinclined to seek others out. I suppose Alex was busy too, though years he later confessed to me that his own shyness, though not anywhere as great as mine, kept him from going up those stairs and knocking on my door. Sometimes these things are harder, when you want so badly to be friends and are afraid it is all in vain. So, all in all, it was nearly two weeks before I had a proper conversation with the man. And it started off with me fainting at his front door. I had received my pay from the Bastonnets. I had also been politely informed that M'sieu and M'me and that little idiot p'tite M'sieu would be leaving for Tenerife and would no longer need my services. They were steady work, and I was sorry to lose the guaranteed pay, but I was sure something else would come along. It always did, and I had a neat stable of recommendations to help matters along. August in Paris, I learned, meant everyone making for the seaside. Tutors are not needed. A solid month of holiday is a grand thing, unless you are a very poor young Englishman who needs to eat. Although I had savings, I ran through them quickly. I had not eaten more than a heel of bread in two days when I 12


finally swallowed my pride and went to find Alex. I'd been living off tea, but one couldn't do that forever, and I knew that I couldn't even look for work if I was too weak from lack of food. And while I wasn't quite at that point, I felt distinctly light-headed when I descended the short flight of stairs to Alex's flat. I knocked on the door hoping he was home and that is, honestly, the last thing I remember before waking up on his floor, my head pillowed in his lap and he peering anxiously at me. He told me later I had simply said 'Please', and collapsed in a dead faint. I still maintain that I would never have been that dramatic, but I suppose you never know. The city had rubbed off on both of us. Even today, I still carry a little of her romance with me. Rather, Alex did, and he never let me forget when I was young and everything was new and exciting. "Oh, good, you're not dead," he greeted me, with a nervous smile. "I am so very sorry...." I closed my eyes, trying to forget that look of worry on his face. "Forgive me. I only...." A deep breath—swallow your pride, Clifton, he may refuse you anyway. "I've no money. And I'm so hungry. I can pay you back soon; I promise, Alex, I really do...." "Dear God, when was the last time you ate?" he asked, voice sharp. "Two days? I think?" He swore and passed a hand over his face. "Michael, you absolute idiot, why didn't you come and see me two days ago? Now you've made yourself sick." He shook his head and 13


gave me a crooked smile. "Lucky for you, I was just at the market. Can you make it to the bed?" I sat up, but was unable to meet his eyes. "If you help, yes." "All right then, just like coming off the rugby pitch." I had never played rugby in my life. Asthmatic, you know. Also, entirely untalented. "Up you go, Michael." He hoisted me up and nearly carried me the few feet to his bed—no mean feat when I towered over him by several inches. His flat was set up like mine, I could now see. The door to the corridor opened onto a small sitting room with a range and sink along one side, a little square of counter, and like me, he had fit a tiny table and chairs in against the window that looked out onto the street below us. A small sofa sat in front of a fireplace—which was cold, of course, in summer— and an open doorway led to a bedroom even smaller than mine, holding only a bed and a wooden trunk. A freshlypressed shirt was hung from a hook by the window, but otherwise the flat was bare-walled, painted white, and had dark, slightly warped wooden floors. "Please tell me you've at least had something to put in your stomach in that time?" he asked, laying me down and covering me with a light quilt. His hands were quick, hardly touching me except for when he brushed my hair off of my forehead, lingering to feel for a temperature. "Plenty of tea." "Good lad. Rest here, all right? I'll cook something as quick as I can, I promise." 14


I nodded, and let my eyes close, surprised at how weak I was. Had it been more than two days? Well, the food hadn't been abundant then, either. Enough to keep body and soul together, but I was terribly thin. "Michael? I've made you boiled eggs and toast." He called my name softly, and the caring in his voice was audible. That, more than anything else, pulled me back to myself, and I opened my eyes. I must have drifted off on thoughts of food and fear. "There's a good lad." He smiled, and helped me sit up. "Eat slowly, please, I'd rather you not get sick all over my bed." I grinned. He had joked with me; I could manage appreciation at least, and then I ate as carefully and slowly as I could. "Thank you. So much...." I tried to get up, but he stopped me. "Exactly where are you going, sir? To undo all my good?" He smiled, and pushed me down again. "Let your body digest that and I'll cook you something a little sturdier in a bit. And then, tomorrow, you can go looking for work." "Alex...." "There will be none of that. You were nearly a very sick young man." He was very firm, and I hadn't the energy to argue. "Then thank you," I said very quietly, studying the quilt. "Truly, Alex. If there's anything you ever need...." "I know where to find you. Good heavens, man, you fainted on my very doorstep. I can't ignore that." He brushed 15


the rogue curls off my brow again, smiling kindly. "Besides, now we can visit with each other a bit. Forgive me, please, for being so unsociable. Your Sylvia and her mate Adrienne have kept me running." "Sylvia Beach belongs to absolutely no one, least of all me, and she'd be the first to tell you that," I pointed out wryly. "But I'm glad you've found work." "As am I," he admitted. "Will you be all right? I mean... once you can look for work?" I shrugged. "Soon enough. People will begin to come back to Paris, and they will need their children educated. I'll know enough to save up for next summer." "Good. But Michael, you must promise me something." He was quite serious, and his eyes had gone the very dark shade of blue that even I see only rarely. "That you will never let yourself get this sick again. You must promise me that you'll come to me. For we're friends now, aren't we? And that's what friends do." "Alex... yes, we are." I managed a smile. "But you must make the same promise to me." He hesitated, and then nodded. "All right. Fair enough." Talk turned to lighter things then, to the goings-on at Sylvia's bookshop, all the gossip of the English and American expatriate communities. And then Alex fixed me an omelet, this one with cheese, and a little ham, and some spring onions. I devoured it and promised him that I would appear for regular meals until I obtained a job. Any mention of repayment was waved away. "You've enough troubles now," 16


he said. "Writing's uncertain work; you can repay me when you've got enough and I'm in need." "And what happens when we're both starving in the gutter?" I asked, though I was smiling. Alex was a good cook and better company, and he'd drawn me out in a way no one else ever had. I had not realized then that I'd been lonely, and suddenly I had a friend to chase the solitude away. "At least we'll be starving together, eh?" That surprised a laugh out of me. "It's better with a mate at your side, I suppose. Alex, truly, thank you. I don't know what I'd've done without you." I sighed, perhaps a bit dramatically, keeping in the theme of the day. "Keeled over in the streets, likely." "Oh, hush, you would have found something," he said firmly. "It's Paris, in a warm summer, and you're tougher than that." He softened the words with another of those sweet smiles, more comforting than any cup of tea. "All the same, I'm glad you came to me. How do you feel?" "Much better," I admitted, sitting up under my own power now, drawing my knees up and resting my arms on them. "Should the writing not work out, you'd make an excellent nurse." Alex laughed at that and made a face. "Dear Lord, no. But I'm glad you feel better. Do you want to stay here a bit and nap? If you don't mind the sound of typing, anyway." I wanted to; oh, how I wanted to. But I'd already eaten so much of the man's food and taken up his time. I wasn't going to steal his bed as well, as wonderful as it would be to just doze while he worked away. For as long as we lived together, 17


it was absolutely my favorite thing to do. To pretend to read, or nap, and listen to the sounds of him as he moves about the house, mumbling to himself, or writing, or any of the thousand domestic sounds we make every day. "I should go back to my flat," I finally said, and the reluctance must have been writ large across my face. "Only if you truly want to," Alex said softly. "Michael, I promise, it's no hardship having you here." I hesitated, and then I broke every rule in the book: that of my own heart, and that of the proper Englishman, who does not go about snuggling down in other men's beds. He even tucked me in, and drew his hand across my brow again. "There we are. And now I needn't worry about you. I'll wake you for supper, all right?" I nodded, smiling up at him. "All right. Thank you. Again." He just laughed and stood up, and went to go work. I watched him walk across the room, and I think I fell in love, just a little bit, on that day. **** I slept until supper, ate, and then truly did beg off. "Alex, I am not going to take your bed for the whole night. I promise, I'm well enough to walk upstairs." He looked uncertain but finally relented. "I'll check on you tomorrow morning, all right? With breakfast." He was going to spoil me rotten, that's what he was going to do. "I doubt I could stop you." I smiled at him, and I know it sweetened my features. He says it turns me from 18


handsome to breathtaking, but he always was a dramatic little thing. Alex is the breathtaking one. We bid each other goodnight, and though I managed to stay awake reading for another hour or two, I was soon deeply asleep and stayed so throughout the night. Alex appeared the next morning with good, strong coffee and bread and butter for both of us, and I felt good as new. "A transformed man," Alex agreed, watching me comb my hair and try to tame the waves that had turned into ringlets in the humidity. "Oh, leave off; you're more handsome with them flying every which way." "Really? Uh. Well." I smiled at him in the mirror. "It's hopeless anyway; I inevitably look like a Gypsy." He giggled and tilted his head to one side. "Perhaps. A healthy Gypsy now, at least." I shrugged. "I'm young. And, technically, a tough country boy from Kent. Though Father's a doctor." Alex nodded. "Ah. Technically, I'm a country boy from Sussex. How old are you?" I blushed. "Nineteen. You?" "Bloody youngster. Twenty-one." I grinned at him in the mirror again. "Fine, old man. Am I presentable?" "I'd let you teach my children, if I had any," he offered generously. "And I'd buy every article or story you wrote, had I a magazine," I responded, with a little bow. "Wish me luck, Mr. Montrose." "As ever. I'll see you for dinner?" 19


"Dinner," I promised, and settled my hat, before heading out to try to find some middle-class-or-better family with a son who needed educating. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Three In Which I Am Helpful My luck came in that day—if I believed in luck—and I found a thrice-a-week position. As families began to return from their summer holidays, things would improve, and until then, at least I could pay the rent and buy a little bit of food. And, true luck, I was given an advance on my first week's pay, so that I would not have to rely on Alex for dinner. Perhaps I could even buy enough, soon, to treat him to a meal. I was taking the long way home to my little flat just off the Rue de L'Ecole-de-Medecine, when I saw my friend sitting in a cafe, a glass of wine at one elbow and a notebook before him. "Alex, bonjour," I greeted him, cheered by my success that day and more so when he gestured me to join him. "Excellent news." I told him of my new position and that I'd been to the market. Bread and cheese, eggs and a bit of wine, and a little dry sausage. Not a feast, but plenty compared to what I'd had, and it would be so good, all of it. "That's wonderful, Michael. I knew you'd find something," he said, but his smile didn't quite ring true. "Forgive me, you're working...." He sighed, and closed the notebook. "I'm not, Michael, much as I'm trying." He shrugged, and looked out beyond me, eyes unseeing. "Writer's block, or no talent, or just no ideas... it's not coming." 21


"Hush. You've plenty of talent," I protested. The night before, he had shown me one of his articles that the Kansas Star had published, and I'd been pleased to learn that he really was an excellent writer. "You've just been staring at the same thing for too long." I reached over and tapped my knuckle on his forehead. "The words are in there. Give them a moment to come out." He smiled, dodging my hand. "Hah. Perhaps." "Absolutely. Come, finish your wine and walk with me a little bit. Have you even seen the Tuileries, yet?" He shook his head, a bit shyly, and I faked a moue of displeasure just to see him smile. "No wonder your muse has abandoned you. She needs something to keep her going!" He giggled and took a good-sized swallow from his wineglass, before handing it over to me. "Here, finish it; it will be our little celebration." "Deal." I was careless and did not think, and I put my lips where his had been, drinking from the same glass. My grandmother would say that it was that which sealed our fates and twined us together, but I am less certain. I think nothing on earth would have kept me from falling in love with Alexander Montrose, no matter what portents or omens I did or did not heed. We walked home together through those beautiful gardens with the gravel crunching under our feet, and he seemed much cheered. "Michael, thank you. Perhaps I was trying too hard."

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I shrugged. "I've no talent at writing, but I've been stuck at translations more than once. A good walk has always cured me, and I'd hoped it would do the same for you." "Aye, I think so." His smile grew, and he committed that great British sin—touching another person when not absolutely necessary—by clapping my shoulder as we parted in front of his door. "And congratulations on finding a position. Remember, call on me if you need help." "I'll remember," I promised. "And you do the same. Or even if you don't need help," I added, rather impulsively. I don't make friends easily, far too shy for that, and I value the ones I have. Right about then, Alex was the only one. "I'll remember, Michael," he said softly and turned away to enter his flat. I went up the stairs, thinking all the while of the beautiful young man just a few meters away. **** So I found myself with a friend, my first in Paris. And a friend unlike any I'd ever had before. Alex was intelligent and thoughtful, quicksilver of mood. He was so much more alive, more adventurous, less willing to let life go by in a rush of scholarship than had been the boys I'd befriended in England. I would never have chosen him, but he would prove to be valuable, in more ways than I could ever have expected. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four In Which I Am Bohemian "Have you anything better to wear?" I had answered the knock at my door expecting to find Alex, and I was not disappointed. I had, however, expected a pleasant night in over a bottle of wine, and in this I was very much disappointed. My friend had strode in, very much at home, and asked his cheeky question. When I didn't immediately reply, he went on, whilst making a beeline for my little bedroom. "We're attending a secret party in an hour, and you simply cannot appear in a jacket and... are those flannel trousers? I can lend you a bow-tie, but tell me at least that you own a good coat?" "I do, thank you. Wait, what? Where are we going?" Tea seemed very distant, just then. "And what's wrong with my trousers?" "A secret party." Alex's voice was slightly muffled, proof he was rooting through my wardrobe. "Good God, man, there are colors other than dark blue and black, you know." Alex, of course, was wearing a jacket which was a particularly flattering shade of dark red. It was cut low, with long tails, and I tried not to notice how it curved over his bottom when he bent over. "I like dark colors. Not that it matters, as I'm not going." 24


That at least got his attention, and his handsome head appeared around the door. "What? Oh, I'm terribly rude. If you have plans...." I didn't, and he knew it, and I told him so, in no little huff. "If I'm going to spend the evening sitting in a corner, alone, I may as well do it at home, where I can have a book and my dressing-gown." "Oh, Michael, it won't be like that at all," he wheedled. "Say you'll go with me? Jeannette throws lovely parties—well, I'm sure she will anyway—and I promised I'd bring someone." "Is everyone else busy, then?" I asked, still peevish over my wonderful night being interrupted. This Jeannette was a new friend of Alex's, and I did not quite trust her. She wrote poetry. And what would I ever say to her, anyway? The only poetry I liked was Alex's. "Well... yes," Alex admitted, not quite meeting my eyes. "But please? I would so like to have you along. I promise I won't let you be abandoned in a corner; we shall be fast friends and attached to one another for the whole night through." I gave in, of course, because I know when a fight is futile, and I should be lying if I said it didn't matter that Alex had promised not to abandon me and that I would spend the night entirely in his company. That alone would make the party, which was sure to be loud, chaotic, and dull, at least bearable. I would certainly have something delightful to gaze upon, and even then I could admit that we made a fair-faced pair. Alex was dressed to the nines, of course, and I managed to 25


produce pin-striped trousers, the requested white shirt and tail coat, and even, with no little pride, a gleaming white silk bow-tie. Top hats in place, we took to the streets of the Rive Gauche, following directions that had been hastily scrawled on the back of a receipt. I squinted at the illegible blots in the light that came from a cafe and shot Alex a glare. It was his idea to go out and his scrawl that was leading us further and further into increasingly unsavory-looking streets. He grinned at me, the arse, and led me down more twisting streets until we arrived at a pretty little house at the dead-end of a narrow street. The street itself was silent, and the house seemed shrouded, the lights within glowing from behind what looked like sheer, golden curtains. Alex knocked on the door, and it was flung open almost immediately by a creature the like of which I'd never seen before. He, and it was certainly a he, was slim and lithe, his perfectly tailored shirt and jacket showing off the beautiful lines of his body. His face was angelic, his hair gleaming pale gold, and too-bright eyes of an unusual blue hue combined to make the most handsome creature I had ever seen. His lips were berry-red, clearly colored with cosmetics, which must also have lent their magic to his red cheeks and black-limned eyes. I had never been simultaneously so drawn to someone and so afraid of them. The creature shrieked with joy and wrapped his arms around my Alex, who of course wasn't in any way mine then. Which didn't stop me from forgetting my shyness, for I was practically hiding behind my friend, and striding up to the 26


doorstep to stand beside my companion. I was bound to advertise as clearly as possible that he was not here for this young creature's taking. "Alex-love! I am so glad you could make it. And you brought another friend for us!" He looked me up and down, and I must have passed muster, for he smiled politely and held his hand out to me. "Vance Coleridge." "Michael Clifton." I am not sure what prompted me to do so, but I kissed his hand, as I would have a lady's, and this seemed to please him. "Oh good, you found one with manners." He patted my cheek, and I restrained myself from biting his hand. "Do come in. Jeannette's somewhere about, but everyone's just started arriving, so things are still quite slow. Did you say it was the Standard you were writing for?" Alex laughed, entering the strange house easily and kissing this Vance on the cheek in the European fashion. He may not have been as beautiful, but in that moment I loved him for his ease and earthiness. And for the way he wrapped his hand around my arm and pulled me after, dove-colored gloves gleaming against the plain black fabric of my coat. We entered a whole other world. Low lighting, combined with the gold and white fabric hung everywhere, gave the impression of a circus tent, but one that glowed with its own light. There were bottles of champagne throughout the room, glasses both filled and empty, and sweet smoke filled the air. I must have looked the right country boy, gawking as I took it all in. 27


And then I saw them. Two young men, wrapped in each others' arms and kissing passionately, their limbs tangled together as they leaned against a satin-covered wall. They were dressed as Alex and I were in formal garb, inconspicuous and exactly as every other remotely fashionable young man in the city was dressed. They were handsome enough, but their ardor lent them beauty, and it was the most erotic thing I had ever seen in my life. My physical reaction was rapid, involuntary, and I prayed that the placket of my trousers was somehow magically tailored to hide it. Nothing could hide my face's reaction, though, as I gazed at the passionate young lovers, drinking in the sight of men who had no fear. I must have stared too long, though, as Vance hooted, drawing my attention away just in time to see him poking Alex in the ribs. "You didn't say he was so innocent!" "So were we all, once," Alex said mildly, his gaze meeting mine. "You are only surprised at their lack of caution, are you not?" "You know me far too well." I met his gaze in return, just smiling slightly. Even I instinctively knew that language of glance and gesture that allowed one invert to reveal their nature to another. Alex responded back similarly, and I relaxed, though only slightly. We had this in common too. I couldn't help but glance at the two men again, before I followed Alex and Vance out of the room. They ended their kiss, though retaining the embrace, and one of them looked 28


to the side, surely sensing my eyes on him. He smiled kindly at me, and I fled in embarrassment. When I found my friend again, he had obtained a glass of champagne for me. I tasted it appreciatively, the bubbles going straight to my head. They must have met the sweet smoke there, for both of them were making me feel dreamy and relaxed, my shyness dropping away as Alex chatted with Vance then introduced me to Jeannette. She was mannish-looking, with square features that complemented her bearing, which was that of a consummate athlete. Jeannette did not move with grace, exactly, but with the sureness of a person who knows her body completely. That she was dressed almost identically to myself only added to the androgynous, if not outright masculine, sense she exuded. "Michael. Welcome to my home." She kissed me full on the mouth, and while I was still recovering from that, she spotted another friend and bid Alex an apologetic goodbye. Of course, my friend was overjoyed at my speechlessness—again. "I knew she would adore you! She only kisses those she likes," he explained, between laughter. "How can she adore me? I didn't even say hello...." I shook my head, trying to clear it, and drank more champagne from the glass that had been mysteriously refilled. Vance had likewise been pulled away, and the other people here (for the room was filling very quickly) seemed to swirl around us, leaving impressions of colors and shapes and trilling voices, rather than of people. 29


"What is this sweet scent?" I finally asked, forcing the words around a mouth that had grown even more stubborn than usual. "It's not... Alex, tell me this isn't opium?" I pleaded, fear sending me a little closer to sobriety. Alex laughed and settled his arm through mine, leading me towards the back of the house. "It isn't; even Jeannette's not quite that profligate. Though I imagine you could get some easily enough here, along with any other drug you wanted." I noticed that he didn't happen to mention what the sweet smoke was, but little matter anyway. I was relaxed, happy, and more than a little excited as men and women swept around me. They chatted briefly with Alex, sometimes even with me, and still I stayed on the arm of that handsome man who guided me through the crowd to the garden at the rear of the house. There was some relief from the thick air of indoors, but not from spectacle, as we entered the garden. The little space was lit up like some kind of wonderland. Candles glittered from every surface, reflecting off silvery-white swags of fabric that had been hung in the branches of trees and from the high stone wall that encircled the garden. The grass beneath our feet was thick and springy, and a small group of musicians, all clad in some fairytale idea of Greek dress, lent beauty to the scene. I couldn't help but laugh, and it wasn't just the champagne. This was magical, special, and I would never even have dreamed it, let alone seen it, had I not had Alex by my side. My friend grinned, and I knew I would be dragged to every party he was invited to, but the promise of even the 30


dullest literary salons was not depressing when faced with this magic. A beautiful woman, taller even than myself, glided by and smiled at me. I bowed slightly to her, and she beckoned me closer. A waltz was beginning, and Alex gently pushed me towards her. I might have preferred to dance with him, but I supposed that, even in this magical place, such a thing would be beyond taboo. I tossed him a regretful look, only to find he'd been swooped upon by another, equally regal, woman. My own partner was an expert dancer, allowing me to lead but responding quickly and precisely to the tiny hand motions and nudges that make up even a simple dance. She laid her head to one side when it was obvious that I wasn't going to land us in a hedge and studied me. "You are new here, yes?" Her voice was low and raspy, heavily accented, halting and unsure. And I, who was so selfish in my shyness, felt for this beautiful creature, smiled easily, and replied in French. "New enough to Paris, and very new to such a... scene." The use of her language thrilled her, and her violet eyes lit up, painted lips parting in a wide smile. Something seemed just a little bit off, and I studied her face more closely as she welcomed me, her arms coming around me just a little tighter. It was when she was asking me what I was doing later that night that I finally noticed the unmistakable bump at the front of her throat. I stumbled in shock, thankfully avoiding trampling on her—no, his—feet, and apologized automatically, unable to meet the violet eyes that had caught me earlier. 31


He seemed to understand what I had seen, and mercifully the dance came to an end then. I mumbled my thanks and fled to find Alex laughing and kissing his partner on the cheek, parting as old friends would. "Michael! See, I told you that you would have great fun!" He snagged two glasses of the ever-present champagne from a tray that had appeared for thirsty dancers, and I dragged him off to hide, rather pitifully, behind an apple tree. He stiffened in my hold, and now, of course, I know what he thought was going to happen, but there would be no declarations, or acts, of lust that night. Instead, I leaned in close, praying we'd be hidden from more of the glowing, decorated creatures. "She's not a woman!" I hissed. "I mean, he isn't!" Alex gave me a befuddled look. "I know. Oh, Michael, surely you've seen fairies before?" He sighed at my mortified look. "Dearest innocent. Drink your champagne, and Uncle Alex will protect you from further dances." "Oh, leave off. I don't need protecting," I said, feeling bruised at my friend's attitude, coming so hard on the heels of feeling I'd been fooled. If I'd had a chance to think on it, I would hardly have minded dancing with a fairy. Indeed, I would go on to become great friends with several of them. It was the sensation of being fooled, of perhaps being made a fool of, that was so painful on that night. Alex sighed deeply. "Would you like to go home?" "No. No, of course not. We only just arrived, and you are here to see your friends." I sipped from my glass, the heady 32


drink taking the edge off of my mood. "Forgive me. It is beautiful here." "Good. I shouldn't want you to be bored or unhappy." Alex's hand was very warm on my shoulder, and I relaxed at the touch. He wasn't mocking me; no one was. We were all free to do as we liked. To kiss our lover in front of everyone, or dress up like a lampshade, or, indeed, in a red velvet jacket that set our hair off beautifully. It was too new, and I couldn't quite grasp it, but I was not going to leave. I smiled at my friend and took his hand when he'd finished his champagne, the two of us plunging again into the beautiful chaos of the first, and most successful, of Jeannette Poiret's legendary parties. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five In Which I Begin To Fall In Love August turned into September, and I found myself busy with lessons. Not so busy, though, that I couldn't meet a friend for un petit cafe now and again. Or a cognac, if it was evening. "She really said that?" Alex was almost crying he was laughing so hard. "Yes." I gave him a particularly sour look. Madame Etiole had propositioned me earlier that day, giving me quite a shock to say the least. I had refused her, of course, and shown up at Les Deux Magots wearing quite the face. I had expected Alex to commiserate, perhaps to comfort me. Not to laugh at me. He was being a swine, and he knew it. "Oh, stop pouting. You are a very handsome young man, and you ought to get used to being propositioned. I'm stunned this is the first time. It is the first time, hmm?" He leered at me. He knew bloody well that it was the first time. Most people don't greet their friends by wailing, "Madame nearly pinned me against the pianola!" when it's their fiftieth attempted liaison. "I am not handsome," I scowled. "And stop laughing at me. What am I going to do when I show up tomorrow to instruct young Master Thierry in calculus?" "You're very handsome," he argued. "And stop fretting. She'll likely be conveniently out of the house for the rest of 34


the time you're employed. If she is there, act as though nothing ever happened. As the spurned lady, I assure you she'll be doing the same." He cocked his head and examined me closely, in that way that was only his. "This really is the first time you've had to deal with unwanted affections?" "Yes, you imbecile." I scowled further. "I'm ever so sorry." "Oh, Michael, don't be angry with me," he pleaded, changeable visage looking winsome now, trying to win my affections. It was working, of course. "I'm sorry I laughed." "No you're not." "No, not really," he admitted. "But I do truly ask your forgiveness. And I promise, she's at least as embarrassed as you are, if not more. After all, she's the one who had her affections turned down." "It'll really be all right?" "Really. Trust me." He smiled softly. "You are an innocent thing, aren't you?" "Not that innocent." Now I was bristling for another reason. "I'm... uh. I mean, I've...." "Had lovers? We're in Paris, Michael. Everyone here has had lovers. Usually more than one. Usually at the same time." He winked, then, because he likes scandalizing me. And, though he could not know it was so at the time, because he likes sending me into dangerous daydreams, and the words Alex and lover in the same sentence inevitably had that effect on me. "Yes. That." I shrugged, and looked down, remembering David. "Well, one. I told you, I'm not handsome, like you. Or charming. Or anything desirable." 35


"Michael Clifton, you shut your gob this instant," he said softly. "And I'll never go to Kent, if an honorable, loyal, kind man isn't considered desirable there." I could feel my cheeks burn. "Alex...." "It's true! Michael, you are... well. Let me just say, I can't imagine you'll have any trouble when you do decide to settle down." That man couldn't even tell the truth when he was talking about himself. I simply shrugged. I'm quiet and bad-tempered and too serious. And loving and warm and loyal and all those other virtues Alex extols. But you've got to dig for them, and most people won't. The treasure must be worth the price it will demand, and I could not imagine that I was treasure enough for anything, or anyone. "Never mind. I'm sorry I was snappish. Thank you for the advice." I tried a smile on him, and was relieved to find it returned. "How is your work going?" "About as steady as yours, if less exciting." Alex's smile grew. "I'm making so many contacts, mostly through Sylvia and Adrienne of course. And Janet Genet at The New Yorker. I'm very lucky just now; everyone really does want to hear about Paris. Especially the Americans, but I can write as well for them." "I thought that was why you came here? Because of the fashion, I mean." He shrugged, and his eyes flickered, hooded suddenly. "Well, yes, I suppose so. I wanted to get out of London especially. And Paris is cheap to get to, cheap to live in...." He looked up and gave me his dashing smile, the fake one. "And 36


such fun. Will you come with me to Natalie Barnes' salon on Friday?" "No. I have told you before; I do not go to literary salons." Lush, magical parties I could just about manage, but I was a lump when it came to witty conversation about the fashionable, or for that matter taboo, subjects of the day. "Right, got to stay home and wash your hair," he teased me, his moods changing in an instant. "And be a wet blanket." "Why on earth would you want me there?" I asked, swirling the last of my cognac, trying to draw it out with the smallest sips imaginable. "I'm not literary. Nor am I exactly an aesthete," I pointed out, making a face. Mlle Barnes was legendary. "Infamous" was the term I would use. "But that's exactly why I want you there," Alex said, as though that explained everything. "Besides, you're my friend; of course I'd invite you along." "You need more friends," I informed him, and we finished our drinks in good spirits, neither of us sniping at the other for a period of ten minutes. A record forever unbroken, I believe. **** I found myself daydreaming of him. Innocently to begin with, perhaps because I was so innocent then. I told myself little stories about us walking together, going to a cafe, all the quotidian things that made up our lives. These were sweet, because I had a friend and was happy, and I knew they could come true. 37


And then there were the less innocent ones. He would be at my door, on some pretense or another, and I would invite him in. I would have enough food to make us a good dinner, and I'd pour out glasses of wine, sipping mine while I fried some chops, potatoes boiling away on my little range. "Did you see Jacques last night? Really." My friend was tipsy, heavy-lidded and chatty. We would have shared a coffee in a pool of light the night before, the yellow glow of a cafe showing up Jacques' foolish drunkenness. He was an idiot, a drunkard, and very beautiful. He wrote terrible poetry, but very good magazine articles, and so was one of Alex's rivals and friends. But now Alex realized what a ridiculous creature our little group's golden boy was, and I would say something terribly witty and biting. I could never quite imagine what I'd said for I am neither witty nor biting in any way, but it would always make Alex throw back his head and laugh, and toast me with his glass. We would eat together comfortably and talk over our empty plates, until Alex suddenly grew very sleepy, too tired even to make his way downstairs to his own flat. In daydreams, I'm not so shy, and I offered to share my bed with him. He accepted, of course, and I crawled into a bed that was no longer cold but now held my friend. We would sometimes fall asleep together immediately, side-by-side or, when I was especially lonely, with our arms about each other. We would sleep deeply but wake very early the next morning. 38


My head would be nestled on his shoulder, and he would be looking down at me when I woke. Sometimes we would talk. "I prefer the company of men," I'd whisper, giving voice to what had been kept only in wordless glances, and he would nod with the perfect understanding of a fellow invert. "I think you very handsome." He would nod again, and touch my cheek, something like a caress. "I think you handsome as well." "Oh, Alex, I love you." He would already be moving, our bodies sliding past one another as he wrapped his arms about me, kissing me passionately. I'd kiss back, of course, and if I was telling myself this little story at night, I'd often reach beneath the bed-covers and bring myself to bliss with hand and imagination. That was most of this secret dream; an impossible dream, I reckoned. Sometimes I saw him push me away in disgust, knowing that that would be most likely the truth, should I ever reveal my heart to him. Perhaps he was an invert too, but he clearly preferred creative, witty, capable men, and certainly not his quiet, retiring friend. But still, when I meant to sketch a tree, a bridge, a passing cyclist, a beautiful young man instead invaded my drawings. **** I had become a regular at Jeannette's parties, though I cannot imagine why. I began to recognize people at them. 39


Vance, of course, and the man I danced with that first week who went only by the nom de femme "Bijou," and who was always kinder to me than I deserved. But none of these people had yet become my friends, though they had with Alex, of course. I was simply there, in the group but not of them, drinking in the surreal beauty without contributing to it. I do not think I realized how very lucky I was, to be in a place that would let me be free, if only I had had enough sense to see it. But there I was, regardless, and it meant that one night I found myself sprawled on a soft sofa, Vance on one side of me and Alex on my other, with Jeannette pouring glasses of absinthe for all of us. I was drunk, of course. I pretty nearly always was at those parties; it was unavoidable and undesirable to be otherwise. It was a mellow, sweet drunk, caused by champagne and wine. It was further guided by my companions' laughing voices and the light marijuana smoke that had become Jeannette's signature. The whole ritual was fascinating, enrapturing even Vance and forcing him to quiet his tongue. Jeannette, wearing something organza and impractical, knelt before a low table. She held a silver spoon, its bowl slotted and worked to resemble leaves, over a squat glass that held a clear, greenish liquid. A sugar cube had been balanced on the spoon, and she very slowly poured ice water over the sweetness, filtering it through the spoon and into the liquor. Her face was such a picture of concentration, her arm not even shaking, that the transformation of the absinthe was 40


dramatic, even shocking, as a cloudiness billowed in the clear liquid, the contents of the glass utterly transforming as the water dripped into it. I must have gasped, because Vance touched my leg and smiled at me. "The green fairy," he whispered, and we watched the slow dance begin again, the second glass being filled, then the third. Jeannette worked methodically, her face taking on the blank joy that can be seen in the particularly devout. To this day I have no doubt that this was her act of worship. She had worked so hard to create this place of heaven for all of us, inverts and queers and those who simply didn't fit in, and the green fairy was her mistress. She handed the glasses 'round when the last one was filled, and I sipped mine, the sweet, heady scent making me dizzy. The drink wasn't bitter at all, but nor did I drink it quickly, as I would champagne. It seemed meant to be taken gently and sipped, and I understood again that that this represented Jeannette's deity, and her lover. I sank back against the sofa and laid my head on Alex's shoulder. I wanted to tell him what all of this meant to me, how I could maybe, with time, come alive in a place such as this with woody scents filling me, overlaying the sharp masculinity of Alex's cheap cologne. He turned his head and smiled at me, and I did not speak. Instead I closed my eyes, just listening to Vance and Jeannette talking. The sun would be rising soon, and I was as happy as I'd ever been in this strange little house in the Latin Quarter, about as far from my childhood as I could get. 41


I fancied I felt a kiss laid on my lips, but I was halfway to sleep and could as easily have dreamed it. The sweet liquor, and Alex's arm around my shoulders, led me off to sleep while my friend and the people who would be my friends talked softly through the dawn. We walked home together under balmy early-morning skies. Paris was untouched in those days, having survived one war, and she was full of her own beauty. The City of Light did not sleep, and it would be easy to be lost in her ways, as I was beginning to learn. You needed to find a pole star to keep you steady. At that point, Latin was still that anchor for me. It very nearly wasn't Alex, and for once it was all his fault. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Six In Which I am Frightened I hadn't seen Alex for a day or two, but that wasn't really unusual. We were both busy that autumn, and to meet for a drink or dinner twice a week was all we could make time for. So it surprised me when Sylvia asked after him. "He's well, as far as I know. Why?" She shook her head. "Not so well, the last I heard. Adrienne said he collapsed in her store, just a few hours ago, with a fit of some type." I had undergone many shocks in my young life, even then. The death of my beloved grandmother when I was still quite young, David's betrayal, just to name a few. And, on top of that, I am admittedly somewhat high-strung. Each of these shocks has been accompanied by very specific sensations: a rushing sound in my ears, the world going dark for a moment, a bitter cold sensation coming over my body. Hearing that Alex had collapsed, his body taken in a seizure, brought on those same sensations. Sylvia went on to explain that he had come to quickly afterwards, clearly ashamed of himself. Adrienne had wanted to send for a doctor or an ambulance, but he was having none of that and promised only that he would go home. And so Adrienne had told her great good friend Sylvia Beach what had happened, knowing that between the two of them, they would have the 43


connections within the expatriate community to ensure he was cared for. And they did—me. I pushed the books I had been meaning to buy into Sylvia's hands, muttered some kind of apology, and turned and ran. Actually ran, through the Parisian streets, to find our nearby building, taking the stairs two at a time and pounding on his door. "Alex? Alex, it's Michael," I called, barely able to control my voice. There was no reply, and I tried the door, finding it unlocked. I slipped in, ready to call out, when I choked on my own words. Alex was lying in bed, clearly fast asleep. Strange enough for the middle of the day. Stranger still, the tear-streaks that ran down his face, still tense even in sleep, marks that made my heart turn over. "Oh, Alex," I whispered, and crossed the room to sit on the edge of his bed, as he had done for me nearly two months ago now. "Oh, sweetheart." The word I couldn't give full voice to yet could be whispered in his sleeping ear. "Whatever happened to you?" I looked down at him, examined him closely. There was a bruise forming on one cheek; he must have hit that dear face on something hard. His breathing was even, at least, and I drew back the quilt just enough to... well, I wanted to take him in my arms. Something was wrong, and I knew men had died of fits such as those, when they struck their head too hard, or somehow choked themselves. I could have lost my Alex, and the thought of that brought an extra tenderness to my motions. He was my 44


dearest friend, and I cared very deeply for him, in a way that went beyond friendship. "Alex, sweetheart, wake up for me," I murmured, shaking his shoulder just a little. "Let me know you're all right in there." "Mmm? Michael?" He woke up slowly, and took a moment to focus on my face. "Shh. Just making sure you're all right. You... you had a fit...." He closed his eyes and laughed, a harsh, cackling sound. "Who told you, Sylvia or Adrienne? Or any of the other thousands of Parisians who surely know now?" "What are you talking about? Sylvia wanted to know that you were well, and Adrienne the same," I protested. "I'm the only other one who knows about it, I'm sure. If that even matters." I touched his brow, sweaty but not overly warm. He was agitated but not unwell, I guessed. "I'm fine," he said harshly, and turned away from me. "Let me sleep." "Alex, I'm sorry. Of course I'll let you sleep now," I protested, frightened by the change in my usually voluble friend. "I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were well." "Of course I am," he snapped. "You needn't waste time on me." "It isn't a waste! What did you promise me, anyway? That you'd find me, if you needed help." I dislike being taken to task for showing simple human concern and didn't appreciate being lashed out at. "Alex, fits aren't to be taken lightly." 45


"I know," he said, his voice harsh and loud. "I've had them before. I thought, perhaps, I was free of their curse here." He growled in frustration. "Michael, leave. I don't need your help, or your pity." "Then you've got neither," I snapped back, my limited patience worn through. "You never had my pity, Alex. I was worried about you, that's all. Like you worried about me. I thought we were mates?" "I don't need coddling. Leave." "Fine. You're obviously fine. Go back to sleep, and forgive me for caring," I said, and left in a proper huff. How Alex spent the next few hours, I don't know. I spent them furious. That ungrateful creature, who had talked so much about relying on one another. To fly off the handle at me, when all I'd done was... well, not break into his flat, but to enter uninvited. And wake him up. But I was worried! I knew well that seizures weren't to be toyed with, and I continued to worry over him. I do not forgive easily, but there are many things stronger than my anger, and caring for Alex was one of them. My flat was given a thorough scrubbing, to try to burn off my anger at his childishness, and then I cooked. An omelet, like he'd made me, with ham and cheese, and a pot of tea to go with it for a little bit of home. That bastard was going to take my peace offering, and he was going to like it. I managed to balance everything on a tray, and the tray on my hip, as I knocked on his door. He answered it, and a more pitiful picture he couldn't have made if he'd been trying, though for once he wasn't. His hair was mussed, sticking out 46


in every direction, and his eyes were still red-rimmed from crying. The bruise on his cheek was livid now, his clothes rumpled from sleeping in them. "Michael?" "I made you dinner." I really, truly hadn't expected his reaction, and I think that unsettled both of us. His face crumpled, and he tried to hide it in his hand, covering his eyes as though he could hide how near tears he was. "Oh, dear God, Alex...." He shook his head and scrubbed at his eyes. "No, no, just... I thought you were coming here to tell me off, or something of the sort. Something I deserve. And you made me dinner, after I was horrid to you and screamed at you...." And he says I'm too dramatic. "Alexander Montrose, be quiet," I ordered. He was becoming hysterical, and it was breaking my heart. At least he obeyed, and I was able to enter the little flat and set the tray down and take him into my arms, as I'd wanted to since earlier that day. "Shhh. Shush. None of that. There will be no discussion of what you do or do not deserve," I murmured in his ear. "We're mates, right? And that means we forgive each other. Shhh. Oh, you've had a day." He had started to cry harder, holding tightly to my shirt. "Sorry...." "Didn't I say none of that?" Oh, he was completely undoing me, as I held him and soothed him. "Shhh. Shhh, calm yourself." He did, coughing a little as he choked back further sobs, but his breathing evened out, and he wasn't giving himself hysterics any more. 47


"All right?" "For the moment." He smiled sheepishly and sat down at the little table where I'd laid the meal. He rubbed the tears from his face and looked up at me, calm now. "Michael... thank you doesn't cover this." "Then we're even. Eat up, and then we can talk. And I want to take a look at that bruise." He touched his cheek and nodded, and then he tucked in as ordered. I wasn't hungry, but I shared the tea with him and watched him eat and even regain a little of his usual joie de vivre. "You're truly all right?" I asked, only a little comforted by the way color was coming back into his cheeks. "Yes. Well, mostly." He shrugged. "I've had fits since I was a child. Usually years apart. I had thought...." He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "It's not something one outgrows, is it?" "No, Alex, I'm afraid not." Many years later, of course, we understood mild epilepsy. He had medicine, and proper care, but in those very early days it was harder to know these things. "What have you done before? Afterwards, I mean?" "Usually? Be violently ill, and then sleep for most of a day." He smiled wryly. "Already there on both counts, or nearly so." I blushed a bit. "And there I was, not helping. I'm sorry...." "No you're not, or at least you shouldn't be. I'm the sorry one. I behaved abominably, and you were being so kind." He looked down at his empty plate and mug. "Are being so kind." "Alex. Friends, remember?" 48


"I remember," he said quietly, and looked up, and gave me a sincere, sweet smile. "Thank you." "Whether you like it or not?" I drew him up and over to the window, where the evening's light was strongest. "Let's see.... I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm going to hurt you a moment." I pressed on the bruise, making sure nothing was broken, and although he winced, I figured he would be all right. "Poor thing. Just a bruise, though." And if he'd noted that I'd called him my sweetheart, he was quiet about it. "Suppose that's good." "Could've been worse," I pointed out, and gave his hair a good muss. "Do you want anything else to eat?" He shook his head, and I gave him an encouraging smile. "Then go back to bed; you look exhausted. I'll check on you tomorrow before I leave for work, all right?" "All right," he agreed, going over to the little table and stacking the empty dishes on the tray I'd brought. "Honestly, Michael, please don't worry over me another moment. I'll sleep tonight, and likely late tomorrow, and then I'll be good as new." "Then I'll see that for myself," I said, and I gathered up the tray. "And Alex? Come and get me if you need anything. Anything at all." "I will," he promised, showing me to the door. "Sleep well, Michael." "Do the same." I tried not to linger, drank in one last careful look, and finally took myself off. I truly wasn't too worried; I had seen him for myself, now, and all he needed was a good night's sleep and a little time to 49


get over the embarrassment of collapsing in public; it was as easy as that. Or so I thought. **** It would be another three years before he had another fit. I was there for that one, catching him when he fell, holding him when he shook and raw animal noises came from his mouth. I was nearly in a worse state than he was that night, for all that I knew he was fine. I sat up the whole night through, holding his hand while he slept and watching that sweet face. No bruises that time, I had made sure of that. **** In 1923, though, I could not justify that, even on the basis of being best mates. And while I was concerned, there was none of the deep heart's scare about the night, and I slept well and deeply. I made him coffee, buttered a baguette, and brought both down to him the next morning. "Shh, don't wake up all the way," I murmured, shaking his shoulder which was clad in lavender cotton, the silly idiot. "It's early. There's coffee and breakfast on your table." "Mmmm." I laughed softly. "Tell me what I just told you." "Coffee. Breakfast. Table. Sweetheart." I startled a little. There was that word again, the one that kept creeping into my mind when I thought about my friend. Apparently it was doing the same for him. "Sweetheart," I echoed, very softly. "Sleep, then. Sweetheart." It was becoming our secret. 50


He smiled, one of those heartbreaking, heart-mending smiles, and rolled over, curling up towards me. I leaned over, breathing in the smell of his hair, the sleepy scent of warm skin and slept-in bedding. It would be so easy to... not even really a kiss, just brushing my lips over his hair, over his cheek. It would be nothing, he'd never know, and I was dizzy with the closeness of him. Foolishness. I sat up and took myself off, before I did anything else stupid. One last stop at Sylvia's bookshop to let her know that Alex was well and I was keeping an eye on him, and then I went to work... not with a heavy heart, but with a great deal on my mind. Mostly that Alex had called me his sweetheart. [Back to Table of Contents]

51


Chapter Seven In Which We Are Stupid, and Then We Are Not I came home that evening with a slightly calmer mind, if a heart still in a bit of turmoil. My work had distracted me, letting me take refuge in the precision of language. I may complain about them from time to time, but my students are generally a good lot, hard-working if not always intelligent lads. I returned with food for a light dinner, and a treat: an orange for both of us, sweet and fragrant and straight from Seville. Alex had washed the coffee-pot and plate and left everything in a neat stack just outside my door. And, over top of them, a piece of paper with my name on it. Michael, Thank you, again, for your incredible kindness to me. You can see that I am quite well now; please don't trouble yourself over me any longer Alex The note was kind, polite, but even I couldn't ignore that I had been given a firm brush-off. Did he remember the sweet words we'd exchanged, the way I'd held him? Both could be explained, barely, as acts of comfort and concern, but no one, not even myself, is that blind or that stupid. And it had been affection from both our quarters, that was what I 52


remembered most. Alex's body seeking mine out even in sleep, the way he curled around me, the way my voice soothed him into quiet. Curious, I went downstairs and knocked on his door. At least I could see for myself that he was well, and perhaps we would share a glass of wine later that evening. There was no response to my knock, though, and I left the orange on his doorstep, before returning to my flat. I did not see him again that day, nor the next, nor for several after, although Sylvia reported he came to her shop often and seemed in good health. I had been wondering if I would make things worse, asking him to join me for a cafe on a sunny Saturday, when he asked me first. It was a very fine evening, the air ripe with the last days of autumn and a hint of the coming winter, that mellow feeling in the air that feels so good and so sad all at once. "Do you know what winters are like, here?" he asked me as we strolled through Paris's streets, which had come alive again after their desertion in the summer. Their desertion by Parisians, at least; the expatriate community couldn't be away from her for long. We were desperately in love with a city. God help us all. "No, I'm sorry. I'd not been here before I arrived in June." He started, and smiled. "Of course, forgive me. I keep thinking you've been here longer." He smiled at me, sideways and shy. "You're so much a part of the city." I laughed at that. There was no one on earth less Parisian than I. "Alex, just because I memorized a map, and I speak better French than you...." 53


"Everyone speaks better French than I do," he pointed out, not without a certain amount of dryness. "If you would simply make an effort...." I shook my head and smiled. "Or just let me translate for you." He grinned at that. "Oh, yes, I like that option." "Lazy." He affected a look of intense hurt that I would think such a thing of him. I later learned that he is, in fact, the laziest man in all of the British Isles, a fact he disputed constantly. Usually while lounging on a sofa, newspaper in hand, and proving my point all the while. "And here I simply appreciated the fact that I would have to spend so much time in your company, so that you might translate for me. Though if you think that of me, perhaps I take that back." "Oh, pace, Alex. You know I don't mind." He was flirting with me and I was in no mood to have my emotions toyed with in such a way. David's betrayal haunted me still, I suppose. Even through his blithering, I think he could tell he was genuinely annoying me, and we fell quiet but for ordering drinks. "How is your tutoring going?" he finally asked, a bit subdued in the face of my mood. "Well. I've plenty to keep me busy now." I found myself in the odd situation of trying to cheer him; it's usually the other way around, of course. "How is your writing?" He shrugged. "Slow. I couldn't write much there, for a little bit." He smiled shyly. "I'm all right, I simply tired easily. Stronger every day, though, and I'm all up to speed now." 54


"Good," I said, and then more softly, "Are you all right? Plenty to eat, money for rent, all of that?" He hesitated and then smiled. "I'm fine, Michael. I've a bit tucked away for thin times like these." "Well enough. Recall your promise to me, though...." He smiled, eyes dark in the soft lighting of the cafe. "You'd never leave a man behind, would you?" "Never," I said, perhaps more firmly than I intended. "Alex, you're the one that told me off first. We're friends, aren't we?" He bowed his head to me. "Oh, very sporting, throwing a writer's words, his only weapon, back at him. You've the right of it, though. We are friends, good ones. Though I've no idea why, as horrible as I was to you...." I waved it off. "You were ill. And I believe my first words to you were to snap at you, and you forgave me...." This seemed to soothe him, and he was smiling again. "Fair enough. I missed you, Michael. I'm sorry I disappeared. I just... had to have a good think, I suppose. And for all that you'd forgive me, I didn't want to lose my temper at you again." "Then thank you for that." I sipped my wine and smiled at him, lit by candlelight that made his hair glow. "Alex, it's all right. Everything is all right, I promise. You needed a few days, and you took them." He whispered something, so softly even I couldn't hear, and I leaned forward. "Sweetheart. You called me that." 55


"And you called me that, too," I said, voice very soft as well. "Did you mean it?" "Yes." I didn't let myself think, or I'd second-guess myself and be unutterably stupid and ruin everything. Just answered that, yes, I cared for this man, so brave and so uncertain, all impulsivity and passion. So different from myself. "Even speaking in English, even here, we ought to be discreet," Alex murmured. "Shall we speak of it when we get home?" "Aye, that's safest," I whispered back, finally raising my eyes to look at that dear face. It reflected my own feelings: hope, fear, and the knowledge that words couldn't be unsaid. But, oh, such welcome words. "Oh, Alex...." He smiled, tender but so incredibly sad that I couldn't stop myself from reaching across the table, wanting so badly to soothe that bruised countenance. "Dearest Michael. We are friends now, aren't we? And we will be, forever and ever?" Like small boys, we were both so certain—with that wisdom that only the young have, that we could see all down the path of our lives, and every turn it might take. "We will be," I promised him, and we finished our drinks in silence and walked back to our building likewise. Paris made enough sounds to fill our silence, the song of her people drawing out the last of the year's warmth before settling down to cold winter. Her spirit walked with us, always accompanying us; it was impossible to escape the romance and the beauty of the city, no matter where you went in it. 56


And we went to Alex's flat, by silent agreement. He produced a bottle of port from somewhere, and we saluted each other. "Alex? Did you mean it?" "Yes, damn me." He passed a hand over his face. "Michael, I have never known anyone like you." "Thank God for that. Could the world really take another of me?" Sometimes Alex is so unutterably over-dramatic, I've got to pull him back down to earth. He's done the same for me enough times, after all. He laughed at that but was still obviously tense. "Shut up. I have to tell you." He took a deep breath. "I adore you. I want to be your sweetheart, with all that is in me, and to have you as mine." He walked over to the window, staring out at the lit city below. He is a small man, my Alex, some inches shorter than I am, and very slight. He seemed so in that moment, and it was as though the world was battering him. "And to do so... I can't do that to you. It could never be." He looked beautiful, standing in the light of the gas-lamp, the ruby-red port glowing in his hand and echoing russet hair that needed a trim. He was all gold and rubies, that night, and he was breathtaking. I felt quite the dark crow beside him, but that didn't matter in the moment, as I rose and went over to him, closing my hands around his shoulders. "Alex, I don't understand." I frowned. "Have you a sweetheart at home, some Sussex girl who's waiting for you?" He laughed, sharp and short. "I've no one at home. Don't be afraid of that, Michael. Nothing left for me in England." 57


"Then what? I don't understand," I protested, incredibly frustrated. It was the simplest mathematics, one and one makes two. And that which was so wrong in England was less taboo here. Not safe, not allowed, but perhaps possible, in certain circumstances. "I can't...." He sighed. "I owe you the truth. Though you'll not want me after." I dislike being spoken for at the best of times; when the speaker is wrong, I dislike it even more. "Mr. Montrose, stop acting like the hero of some dreadful romance. And please allow me to make my own decisions, thank you." He laughed softly. "Of course. You'll find I'm right, though. After all, who would want to be sweethearts with a whore?" [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eight In Which Alex Is Wrong (For the First of Many Times) and I Am an Idiot (Ditto) "Alexander Montrose, what on earth are you talking about?" "I'm a whore, Michael, that's what I'm talking about." He glared at me. "A rent boy. Those with money enough could have me by the hour, or the day." "What?" "Good God, no one's that innocent." He regarded me and smiled without kindness. "Except for you." "Oh, shut up, Alex. Prostitution's in the Bible, I know what it means." I glared at him. "I sold myself to the gentlemen of London. Michael, men paid me, paid me very well, to have sex with them." He caught my eyes, and wouldn't let me look away. "Aren't you disgusted?" I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. "Is that why you left?" He nodded. "Some of my more... well-known clients were caught. I don't believe they named me, but it was unsafe for me there, for several reasons. So I left." He laughed, bitterly. 59


"I am a writer, really. I could just make more money selling my pretty face." "Stop that." I wasn't sure what I felt just then, truly, but it was automatic—I would not let him put himself down. "Have you... here?" "No! Why would I play with fire twice?" He started pacing, running a hand through his hair. "I only write, now. Even when I'm broke and hungry, I'll only write." "Why did you do it?" I asked, curiosity making its way through my shock. My friend, my handsome, witty friend, no better than a street whore? Rent boys weren't supposed to look like Alex. They were supposed to be lower-class, crass. "Because I needed the money. Because it was the only thing I could do." That sweet face turned nasty. "Because I liked it, at first. Does that horrify you, Michael?" "Yes," I said quietly. "All of it does. I can't even... Alex, I can't begin to think of you doing that. For money." His mouth twisted, sad and bitter. "I can. I did. It's easier than you'd think, Michael Clifton. And see? I knew you'd not want me, knowing the truth." He laughed, short and sad. "I shall move again. Don't worry. You can forget me." "No. No, I can't. Good-bye, Alex." And, having meant everything I said, I let myself out, closing the door gently behind me and going to my rooms. **** I woke up the next morning and went to work, as I always did. I had already prepared lists of vocabulary to be memorized and a short passage from Herodotus to be 60


translated. I bought bread, apples, and cheese on the way home and had my tea on the banks of the Seine, washing the simple food down with water. Everything was very good, I suppose. I sat by the grand old river, watching her flow by. I had always liked doing so when I was home, and I could spend a summer day walking the fields around my home, settling down for meals by the side of the river. The Seine was very different, but it was good here, too. The water slid by, and I thought a great deal that night. **** I came back the next day with my sketchbook, drifting easily back into my solitary ways and not thinking about Alex. When I was a little boy, I fell on a piece of broken glass and cut my arm terribly. My father bandaged it and bound the arm to my chest, telling me not to move it, to be very still so that it could heal. I was applying the same medicine to my heart, ignoring it so that it might heal. I was rarely in the flat and trained myself not to look at the painted-white door on the landing below mine. I worked and walked all over Paris and sketched the Seine. The medicine that had worked so well on my arm (I hardly even have a scar; you'd have to know what to look for to see it) did not work on my heart. It would be wonderfully romantic of me to blame Paris and the way that she made people fall in love, and it would be equally romantic to blame Alex for stealing my heart so completely. I blame neither, though. I had loved open and true, and Alex had trusted me. 61


I could not reconcile my sweet friend with one of the sad, desperate creatures I had sometimes seen in London. But he was one of those creatures, and because of this, I told myself that I could not care for him. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Nine In Which I Come to the Truth, at Last He still lived in the flat below mine. Well, of course he did. It had been two weeks, no more. I hadn't seen him or spoken to him, and I avoided Shakespeare & Co. in case Sylvia asked about him, and I avoided the fashionable parties because I hated them without him by my side. I didn't much miss the Bright Young Things, but I did miss Alex. I came to this realization slowly, but when he haunted my dreams at night, stole into my daydreams during the day again, and began appearing in my sketches, I knew. At first it was a slim, shadowy figure, invisible and faceless in a crowd. Then that familiar profile sat next to me, appearing off to one side in the sketch. After that, I drew him debauched-looking and happy, the way he looked when we came home from parties late at night, a little drunk and a lot sleepy and so alive and young. And I sat by the river and thought. **** It was a Friday night, so he would be out. Maybe. Probably. But it would give me a whole free day to find a new flat, if Alex refused to see me, or if he did so only to tell me that I'd left our friendship in ruins. Because I did not think I could go on, living so close to him, living with my own stupidity in such shining strength. 63


I missed Alex. I missed my friend, the man I could amble down to a cafe with, share a few glasses of wine or a small whiskey, or a coffee if it was very early in the day. I was terribly lonely, and it is worse to be lonely in Paris, because there is no real succor for you. Everyone around you is somehow in love. And I missed the man I wanted to be my lover. I didn't like his past, but I didn't like this present either. It was lonely and boring and without fire-colored hair and a sun-bright smile and a handsome face to lift my spirits. I had accepted so much in my few months here, perhaps I could accept that past as well. So it was Friday evening, and he probably wasn't in, but I had a bottle of wine and my courage, and I knocked on his door. Alex answered quickly, and he looked much the same. Well, of course he would. It hadn't been so very long. The bruise on his face had long healed, of course, and he looked as he always had. He started upon seeing me. "Michael." "Alex. I...." The words died for me, as they so often did, leaving my tongue-tied self staring at him like an idiot. Alex was handsome, breathtaking really. Beautiful in face and body, even his trousers hung perfectly on his hips. I wondered, distantly, if he'd made a fortune on those looks, and then I pushed the thought away. "May I come in? I brought... I mean... if you want to share some wine...." Alex regarded me for a long moment then stepped aside, letting me in. I opened the bottle and he fetched two glasses, pouring the light, fragrant liquid out. We sat at the table that had already heard all of our truths. Well, nearly all. 64


"Thank you for not telling anyone." I had expected a slap in the face, not this. "What?" "Thank you. No one's... no one has looked at me oddly, or refused to speak to me." "Other than you" hung in the air, unspoken. "Thank you for staying quiet about all of it." "Alex! Of course I wouldn't tell anyone!" I was honestly shocked. Who did he think I was? What sort of man? "I would never... you told me such things in confidence, man!" I shook my head and took a strong swallow of wine. It was cheap but tasted good. "I never would; that is for you to tell or not." I couldn't help but smile a little, bitterly. "Besides, who would I tell? The pigeons?" "I was thinking all of our friends, actually," Alex said, still in that same reserved tone. "Your friends," I corrected him and smiled a little. "You're the only one that would put up with me." "Michael...." "Hush. I'm trying to apologize and making a debacle of that, too." I took a deep breath, staring down into the wine, a bit of summer on the cusp of wintertime. I could see my hand through the pale liquid, but only blurry and distorted. So easy to look and change what you saw every day. "I'm sorry. I want to... I want to remain your friend, if you are willing, Alex." "And my sweetheart? Do you wish to forget all that was said?" Damn him, he was going to make me show him my heart, just as he'd shown me his. And I hoped, I hoped so much in that moment, that he would use it against me, as I'd surely 65


wounded him. "No. I mean... I want to be your sweetheart, Alex." "Even if I'm a whore?" I reached across the table, just a few inches. Our hands just about didn't touch, his short, square fingers resting on the table, my longer fingers fanning out. "Do you sell your favors here, too?" "No! I told you, I am a writer. Nothing more," he said bitterly, and he laughed, the same sound he'd made the last time he was angry with me, like steel rubbing together. "Nothing more." "Then you are not a whore. And I want to be your sweetheart." He forced me to meet his gaze. "Why? Why now, when before you couldn't stand to look at me?" I regarded him for a long time, just watching him and marshaling my thoughts. My heart doesn't lead me wrong—it always sees the truth. Getting that truth to my lips so that it can be understood, though, that is where I always trip up. And with Alex before me, suddenly so fragile and defiant and afraid, I had to get these words right. And I looked at him, and truly saw him. Such a young man, not much older than myself. A man who loved his friend and was so afraid, but who had to tell me the truth anyway. A man who was always wreathed in smiles, who always spoke of being free, and who was so light-hearted. What I saw reassured me that what I had decided, sitting by the flowing river, was right. I had known it was right, and now I knew the 66


reasons, the ultimate lesson of these months of parties and love and exploration. "Alex, back in Sussex I knew another boy," I said softly. "And I loved him. And I believed he loved me, because he let me. We lay together, all winter long. And then he decided he loved a girl instead. The broken heart was bad enough, but then he threatened to reveal what I was to the whole village. To tell them that I had... had seduced him, inveigled him. That was a great sin. What you did... was not so great as that, I think." My voice was soft, but he listened closely. "And how can I be disgusted with you? You gave me food when I was hungry. I held you when you wept. And I had not thought I would ever care for another, but here you are, sitting across from me, listening. Forgiving, perhaps." He was quiet at first, his head tilted to one side, as was his way, and he regarded me. "You mean that." "Why else would I say it?" I stood, and held open my arms, and it seemed too long, though it was the length of three breaths, until I had him pressed against me, arms tight around me, and that wonderful body so close. "My Alex, my poor Alex. I want you. I do." He sighed, a great heavy sound, and relaxed in my arms at last. "Michael...." I pressed my lips to the top of his head, kissing golden hair. "I'm so sorry." He smiled, a spark of the old spirit in his eyes. "And my Michael. I am so, so sorry that idiot boy hurt you." He squeezed his arms about my waist and laid his head on my 67


shoulder. "I'm so tired. Will you stay the night, in my bed, and neither of us need sleep alone?" I tilted his chin up and kissed him, our first kiss, and it was as it should be—sweet and light and full of joy. "Of course." I lost myself to laughter, hugging him so tightly. "Just try to pry me away!" He was laughing too, wrapping his arms around my neck and seeking hungry kisses. I picked him up, just a few inches off the floor, with the strength of my embrace, and enjoyed the way that this made him yelp and clutch at my shoulders. "Come." He led me over to the little bed and drew back the quilt. I had already toed my shoes off, and we both quickly stripped down to under-shirts and shorts and crawled in together, already enamored of each other. There was so much of him to touch and to kiss, starting with where his cheek had been bruised. He giggled and turned his face. "Michael...." "What? Kisses are magic. They heal." I grinned. "And we have such healing to do." He made a face at me, but smiled. "Ah. I had missed that." I traced a fingertip along his lips and shivered when he kissed my finger, and then several fingers, the soft, ink-stained tips. "I had missed this too," he admitted. "I was so happy here; you must know that, Michael. But then I grew to care so for you, and I could see you caring for me, and...." He sighed. "I couldn't keep that part of me from you, even though I thought it would mean me losing you. Even though it did." 68


"Only until I could sort my mind out," I protested. "I never hated you or thought you truly awful. I just could not fit it into my head that I cared so much for a man who had done such things. It was my failing, not yours. And now you've the best of all worlds. I know your secret, and I'm here in your bed, with you in my arms," I reminded him. "Alex, tell me true; you're not in any danger here? At all?" "None," he assured me. "I'm safe." I ran my fingers across his face again, just touching him. "Then I hold no issue with your past." I smiled a little and kissed the tip of that little snub nose. "I will try not to, rather. It's quite a big shock." He smiled, and moved to lay his head on my shoulder. "We need never think of it or speak of it again." "No," I argued, but still quietly, gentle with his heart at last. "I'll remember and wonder sometimes. May I ask you about it, if I need to?" He hesitated, and nodded. "If there is a need, I'll tell you true. I won't do it again though, not ever. Never again, Michael. I hated it." "Good. You are a writer now, as you said. And it is dangerous," I said softly, drawing his quilt up around our bodies. "Not just because of two years' hard labor, either." "I know." He sighed, already half-asleep. "And you? That heart healed?" He kissed my chest, and I held him tighter for a moment. "Nearly so, now. Sleep, Alex. You've had a rotten few weeks, and half of it's my fault, and you need the rest." 69


"Not so rotten as all that," he corrected, but he was asleep between one breath and the next. I stayed awake for hours, thinking of the paths life takes us down and watching him sleep. Eventually, I dropped off, the sounds and the songs of the city still going on outside of Alex's window, and weaving their way into my dreams. **** I woke to the sound of Alex humming softly, a sweet little tune. I was in his arms, his chest my pillow, and it was a moment of perfect happiness, one of the very few every man is granted. He felt me stir and fell quiet. I did not want this and nuzzled him a little in an attempt to communicate this, but he stayed obstinately quiet. "Mmmph. Nice." I am not at my best, upon waking. "Sorry," he whispered, and rubbed my back. "Go back to sleep." "No. Up. You." I giggled at myself, and hugged him tightly. "A verb, perhaps?" That earned him a pinch, but I was so happy to have my cheeky lad back. "Grr." "Grr yourself." He kissed me awake, his mouth soft and sweet when our tongues met, and it was the loveliest waking up I've ever done. "Mmm. I meant to say, you have a beautiful voice, and it was nice to wake up to. And I'm not going back to sleep, because I am up, and I'd rather be awake with you." "Fair enough," he decided, playing with my hair, little soft strokes. "Beautiful Michael." 70


"I told you, you're the handsome one." I let him hold me and pet me, though, because it had been so long, and he was so tender. Not many people are kind and gentle with me—I don't let them be so. Alex is an exception. He pressed little kisses to my forehead, and I to his chest, and we had great fun just holding each other while I finished waking up, finally the two of us lying face-to-face, sharing a pillow, arms about each other. "How do you still care for me?" he asked softly, reaching out and tracing a hand down my face. "You look at me, and all I see is warmth. And I was the worst of trash—" "Be quiet," I said sharply, cutting him off. "You have never, ever, in your whole life been trash. You must not ever say that again, Alex." I had, perhaps, gone overboard, and kissed him in apology. "Please, don't think that," I asked, more quietly this time. "I know you, that is why I still care for you. That is what changed my mind. I know you're a good, generous, wonderful man. You have your own reasons for what you did in London. But I can't imagine you were less there than you are here." He smiled shyly and didn't say anything, only kissed me for long minutes. It broke my heart that he still thought of me tenderly. I'd been so wrong to him, and he didn't even realize it. I held him tightly, swearing to myself that I'd not hurt his innocent heart again. Perhaps not innocent, really, but vulnerable, hurting, a heart wounded by so many others. "All right?" I whispered, when he had tucked himself into my side again. "Oh, Alex, I love you." It was impulsive, and it was true. 71


He nodded, his mouth coming up, crashing to meet mine. We kissed in silence for long moments, until a need for air parted us. "I love you too. Thank you. For coming back, for everything." "Then I might as well thank you for the same." We were foolish, and in love, and it was so absolutely wonderful. I pulled him closer and kissed him, hungry kisses, all yearning and tasting. "My Michael," he breathed, and he touched my lips when we parted. I met his eyes, looking for any uncertainty, and found none. Not then, and not when I kissed his fingers, and not when I tasted them, drew them into my mouth and suckled them, and not when he moaned, so softly I could hardly hear it. "Yours," I said, and I promised. "Alex, only if you want to." "I want to, I want to!" He grinned, and gave me a little pinch, because he's an idiot and I love him. "I've wanted to for ages now." He kissed me this time, pressing our bodies together, and I groaned when I felt him grow hard against me. We undressed each other, and it took forever, or so it felt anyway. There wasn't much to remove, but my hands were suddenly stubborn, and when I wanted them to slip off Alex's vest, they were only interested in caressing his back, slipping under the waistband of his shorts and cupping that high, round bottom, squeezing their prize and pushing Alex closer to my body. Even through two layers of fabric, when our cocks pressed against each other, I nearly saw stars. When 72


he rolled his hips against me it was a miracle I didn't pass out, it was so sweet a sensation. I had some vague intention of drawing the moment out, and making it special and romantic, but we were young men, and it was special and wonderful enough to kiss each other hard and trust each other completely. We finally undressed one another, clothes flung to land where they may, and we were taking each other in, kisses like deep draughts of water on hot summer days. I seized his lower lip between my teeth, pulling lightly, kissing until his mouth was wet and his lips a perfect, clear red. I was working my way down his throat and making him moan in a very lovely way when I felt his hand on my cock. Just grasping at first, cradling his prize, perhaps the smallest movement of his wrist. I paused in my exploration of the taste of every square inch of his skin to meet his eyes and marvel at the prize I had been given, un-asked-for and undeserved. "Please, Alex. Please." We were young, as I said, and it was good and earthy, a little rough but so tender, that first time we made love. His hand closed around my prick, and we kissed each other over and over until all I could do was lie there, grasping the bedclothes. He was very good, of course, not that I would have lasted long anyway, as beautiful as he was and as much as I wanted him. Things happened so quickly, it all became one delicious blur. The wave of heat building, my cock so hard in his hand, his clever hand that rubbed and pumped and denied sensation all at the most delicious times. 73


I came while he kissed me. He plunged his tongue into my mouth, and the promise was unmistakable. My hips jerked, and it was like being hit by a wave, but warm, wanted and expected, leaving me full of energy and wanting only to share this feeling with my friend. I think I didn't disgrace myself too badly, for all that I'd only lain with an inexperienced farm boy. I bent over and kissed his belly, kissed just above a tangle of dark red curls, and finally, light and teasing, took the head of his cock between my lips. He gasped, his back arching and his legs falling open, giving me the sweetest place to lie. I could caress his thighs or his stomach as the spirit took me, even reach up and rub a nipple between thumb and forefinger. In the end, though, his cock in my mouth, my tongue swirling and tasting and licking, I held his hand. I was clumsy and didn't know much what to do, but I must have known something well enough when he groped for me, clutched my hair, and my mouth filled with his seed. And his hand was tight in mine even as I swallowed and freed my mouth. He lay back and panted, and he laughed from the joy of it. We laughed at ourselves, sticky and messy and so happy, kissing, and he made a face when he tasted himself, and I laughed at him again, and he gave me a little smack. It had never been like that with David, who celebrated our lovemaking by rolling over and starting to snore. Alex made me lie in bed when he went for a flannel, and he cleaned us both off, though I was by far the messier one, and he kissed me so tenderly, and caressed my face, and kissed me again. 74


"Oh, stop fussing," I scolded, and yanked him onto the bed beside me. "Come here and let me hold you." He did so eagerly, and I teased him, peppering his sweet face with little pecks until he yelped and took my mouth with his, as if to demonstrate a proper kiss. "I was wondering how long you'd hold out." "You're horrible." He rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand and smiling down at me. "I really love you." "And I really love you," I said and reached out to caress his cheek. "Dear Alex. Stay in bed, all right? I'll fix us some breakfast and be right back." "All right." I left him curled up under the quilt and dozing while I worked in the little galley kitchen. Nothing fancy— coffee, bread and butter—but everything tasted so good to the two of us under the quilt together on that rainy winter morning. Dirty dishes set aside, we lay together against the headboard, his head pillowed on my chest, his hair still spiky and tangled from our lovemaking, and the both of us peacefully quiet. Alex is never quiet for long, though. "Did you come to Paris because of David?" he asked softly, trailing his fingers across my stomach, touching me for the simple pleasure of feeling a beloved body. I understood, as I had become enamored with the soft curve of his lower back, and not simply because it rises to become the most delicious bottom in the Northern Hemisphere, possibly the world. "Mmmhmm. Not so safe for me back home either, I suppose," I said, and laid a kiss on that mess of hair. "So glad I did. He wasn't a jot on you." 75


Alex just made a face, and rubbed my chest. "And that broken heart of yours? Nearly healed?" "Nearly," I said softly, laying my hand over his. "Just need a bit of time. And you." Alex smiled and snuggled close, his hand dropping to my hip as if claiming me as his own. His fingers curled around my leg, and I felt my prick begin to grow heavy again. "Alex..." I shifted, just enough to take his mouth with mine. We weren't in such a hurry this time, and although I had no idea what I was doing, I knew I wanted it to last. For hours, if I could. Alex's hand tightened on my hip, and I felt my limbs turn to jelly. I wanted to be his, only his, so badly. I can only think that he sensed this, the way he pulled me to him, moving to straddle my thigh, our bodies coming together under the quilt. He laid kisses on my mouth, trailing down to my jaw, and further nuzzled my throat, leaving wet kisses that echoed down my body as though they were following my veins, making me shiver, making my blood sing. It was all I could do to return his caresses, his slim waist fitting so well in my hands. It was a joy to touch his back, weave my fingers through his hair and chase his mouth for kisses. When I lifted my leg, I found that he was just as hard as I was, and it pleased me to make him moan and rub against my thigh. "Will you teach me?" I asked, very softly. "Please, Alex, I want to make you happy." He stopped then, and I was afraid I had spoken badly, but the kiss he gave me put to bed any worries in that area. "You 76


do. Oh, Michael. I'll teach you anything you want, everything I know, but you don't have to do anything but be." And he kissed me again, so that I might ignore the added shine in his eyes, which I politely did. It was better to kiss, anyway. I was still on my back, with Alex above me, when he reached between my legs and I gave a very unmanly squeak. Alex laughed, and kissed the side of my mouth. "Do you trust me? I won't hurt you, love. I won't." "If I didn't trust you, do you think I would be here?" I asked him quietly, tracing a fingertip down his face, following the line of his sharp cheekbones. "I wouldn't have gone to parties, or let you know... let you know how I am. I wouldn't have done so much, if there wasn't you, and if I didn't trust you." "Such a sweet speech." Alex's smile was gentle, though, and he leaned into my hand, kissing the palm. "I'll make it so that you can't even think, from the joy of it." I just laughed, enjoying what I thought was a tease, when he rearranged me slightly, as tender as could be, but obviously sure of himself and of his body. There was an impressive amount of strength in that slight frame as he arranged the pillows to lie under my lower back, and he kissed me as he parted my legs, sighing in obvious pleasure when he drew back and could see me, debauched and profane, with my thighs parted and cock and balls on display to him. He reached over to the little table beside the bed and palmed something I couldn't see, returning then to kiss each side of my thighs, gently massaging the muscles as he did so. 77


Tender his ministrations might have been, but I was aching already for I didn't even know what, then. For him. And my legs wouldn't relax, the muscles only moving under his hands, jumping at his touch. Alex leaned over again and kissed me tenderly, both of us smiling when our noses bumped. "I can stop, love. If you say the word, at any time, I can stop. I promise." I cupped his face in one hand, and drove every thought of stopping from his head with the way my tongue plunged past those sweet lips, puffed and just a little swollen from our loving. I felt him chuckle, and then felt a square, familiar finger slip into me, just a centimeter, no more. It was slippery and odd, and good because I knew it was Alex, and that led me to push down, to ask for more, which he granted readily. We did not stop touching, never stopped caressing, though after awhile I could only grip his shoulders, moaning my pleasure as he stretched me. When he curled his fingers I lost myself, spreading my legs further, knowing what he meant to do and begging for it. It felt so good, his weight, however slight, on my hips. It felt amazing, when the head of his cock just pushed at my entrance, feeling impossibly big and then pushing through, my body accepting and then begging for more. Begging him in, to become a part of me and I a part of him, welcoming and wanting and loving. No matter our pasts, recent and distant, we loved one another and were hungry for that joining of flesh. 78


We lasted a little longer, or so I think. It is a cliche to say that time dissolved, but it did, until orgasm rained through my body, sending me shuddering, clenching tight around him, and then I felt him fill me, his hips which had been moving so hard and so fast finally freezing, and then the sweet weight of him on me. It felt so good, like I was more alive than I'd ever been, and I did not lose that feeling even as he slipped out of me and I jumped a little at the sudden loss. Alex was warm and heavy in my arms. I held him close, and whispered things to him that were meant for no other ear, endearments and thanks and love, until he fell asleep. I lay awake, my new-found lover held close, and savored the long day ahead of us, and the weeks and months and years that would follow. I had always believed that I would return home to empty rooms for the rest of my life, for who would I want and be wanted by in return? It had been an impossible alchemy, until Alexander Montrose and the summer of 1923. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Sophia Deri-Bowen is a proud native Philadelphian who packed up her life and moved to Wales not too very long ago. She's still not quite sure how she managed it, but she now lives and studies in a beloved new country. Time not spent digging out from under a pile of research goes to rugby union (both playing and watching), knitting, and rambling as far and wide as possible. She is perhaps slightly too obsessed with old boats, the Welsh language, and finding a place that has a decent Belgian beer on tap. Visit her blog at sophiaderibowen.wordpress.com. [Back to Table of Contents]

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A Young Man in Paris (C)Copyright Sophia Deri-Bowen, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Paul Richmond www.paulrichmondstudio.com This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America March 2011 81


eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-808-2

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A Young Man in Paris

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Young Man In Vietnam

Young Man In Vietnam

Young Man With a Horn

Young Man With a Horn

A Moment in Paris

Daring Young Man

One Young Man

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Paris in Love- A Memoir

Paris in Love- A Memoir

Paris in Love- A Memoir

A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

a portrait of the artist as a young man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Notes

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Man in Full

a Man in Full

A Young Man in Paris

Young Man In Vietnam

Young Man In Vietnam

Young Man In Vietnam

Young Man With a Horn

Young Man With a Horn

A Moment in Paris

Daring Young Man

One Young Man

Daring Young Man

Paris in Love- A Memoir

Paris in Love- A Memoir

Paris in Love- A Memoir

A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Notes

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

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