Mirage

by Perry Brass

  I asked how long it would take?

  "No telling," George answered, "but it seems that with the two of us working now together on this—the tablets are like puzzles, you have to understand—maybe another week. Unless we hit a snag, and find some cuneiform characters we don't know at all."

  I wondered if anyone else knew about this. Wright must have been reading my mind. "No one else knows," he said. "No one knows about this at all, except the men in this room."

  "It still doesn't mean anything to me," Robert said. "It's kind of fascinating, I mean about three balls. Hey, Alan—"

  "I know," I interrupted sharply, "there are some pills you need to take. Let's go up and get them."

  I pulled Robert up and we walked up the stairs together.

  "I almost blew it, didn't I?" he said, when we were in his room.

  "Sure did. Wright had better not find out," I said. "Not now, Robert, okay. Scout's honor?" I kissed him.

  "Scout's honor," he whispered into my ear.

  We went back downstairs just as George was getting up. "I'm going to have to leave," he announced. "Thanks for the great Scotch. En-Wright, something tells me this is going to be the most exciting discovery of my life. I don't know if I'm ever going to get over it. This could put us on the map in Sumerology and Assyriology."

  I said goodnight to George, and Wright walked him to his car, safely parked in front of the "Holy Resurrection" sign. The night had turned into a beautiful, soft one. The clouds were gone; it was relatively clear for Washington. From a window in the front waiting room, I watched them talking outside. Robert snuck behind me and put his arms around me. "I've got to have a talk with you," I said. "But I can't do it tonight."

  "No, I don't think you should do anything else tonight. But why are you so interested in this stuff about the—" he stopped himself— "the men with three balls?"

  I told him that we had to get away from the window. We went back up to his room, and I guided his fingers into my under briefs. He found the third ball. I could feel it spinning softly in his hand.

  "You told me it was just genetic."

  "It is," I said.

  "Listen, I knew a guy who had six toes on each foot. I thought it was great. He had big feet, let me tell you. And all that stuff about big feet and big other stuff—in his case, it was true."

  "It's not just a deformity," I told him.

  "Then what is it?"

  I told him I couldn't tell him. Not right then. "We're going to have to leave here very soon," I said.

  "You mean go back to the hotel?"

  "No . . . I mean Wright and I are going to have to leave."

  His eyes suddenly hit the floor. He took his hand out of my brief. He sat, crushed, on the couch where he slept.

  "It was too good to last," he said softly.

  I sat down next to him and put my hand through his shirt opening, and touched his smooth, nice chest. "No," I said. "It's going to last."

  I got up and went back to our room. A few minutes later Wright came in. His smile was pure Cheshire Cat. "What do you think?" he said.

  I asked him about what? I know I must have seemed vague to him, but his face asked for more than the answer.

  "Alan, I knew this was going to happen. I mean, I have some sensitivity, too, and I knew George was going to lead us to something that would make the whole difference to us. Why do you think I've been hanging around this mutant for so long? If we know this secret, we'll be able to control Ki."

  "How?"

  "This Goddess junk. The Goddess, always the Goddess, and the damn priestesses who rule for her. Ki was no more real than all those other gods and goddesses who're now a bunch of names on dusty tablets. We could control the planet, instead of always being the house niggers for the priestesses and the Off-Sexers."

  "Is that what you said to Woosh," I blurted out. "When you threatened him?"

  "How do you know?"

  "I've been trying to reach him," I said. "I reached Aawkwa. He told me Woosh was in hiding."

  "When did you do this? When you were having sex with Robert?"

  "I haven't been having sex with Robert."

  "You lying son-of-a-bitch. Don't think I don't know it, Alan."

  I pretended I didn't hear that. I wasn't going to confess anything to Wright—or to Greeland. As far as Robert's safety was concerned, both of them were too dangerous. "It was after I had sex with you," I said. "Remember, the time you took all of my seed away from me, and gave me nothing?"

  "I was depleted," he said. "I'm sorry." He hugged me closer to him. Tears fell from his eyes. "I did threaten Woosh. I told him I wanted to come home immediately. I figured we'd found Robert, and we could just bring him back."

  "Against his will?"

  "If we had to—"

  "You are a bastard," I said. "I never believed you'd be like this, Wright."

  "But you believed Greeland would be, didn't you?"

  "No," I said without lying. "I've loved both of you, sometimes even at the same time."

  "But now you're in love with Robert."

  "How do you know?" I asked.

  He didn't answer, but just looked directly at me. He was right, and he did know. How he knew was not important. Maybe it was just instinct—Wright's, from knowing Alan for so long; or Greeland's own hunter's instinct. He continued to look into my eyes, and his own eyes said everything: he still wanted me. And I knew he singularly, sweetly—naively—wanted me to tell him I wasn't in love with Robert. And I was sure that Wright would believe my lie, and maybe even, finally, Greeland would. But I told him nothing; he knew the answer—I was in love with Robert. "When do you want to go back?" I asked.

  "As soon as George and I crack the eighth tablet."

  "How will we bring Robert back? That is, if he wants to go. I won't do it against his will."

  "I realize that," Wright said, "and it hurts me, because you know we can't leave without him."

  "And you can't leave without me," I said coldly.

  "Yes. That's why I will have to bring you back—with him."

  I spent the next three days in a state of continuous tension. I no longer trusted Wright on any level. It was horrible. I think if I could have met him simply as a person—let's say at a party; maybe hit the sheets with him—things would have been different. I would have liked him; I would have trusted him. Wright was basically sweet. Shy. Physically, I was nuts about him. His body. The way his mouth worked itself into an oblique smile. His firm, attractive torso; smooth, beautiful ass; runners legs; great cock. But so much of him was Greeland—this storm of uncontrolled passions; ruthless; a coarse, raw intelligence. The two of them together, like two opposing winds that met and became a hurricane, made Wright's presence a menace to me. There was no telling what he'd do to me.

  Or Robert.

  I was afraid Robert was going to leave. He started talking more about going back to the hotel. "You guys are too strange for me," he said. "I feel like we're having a hocus-pocus party, and I'm the next rabbit to come out of a hat." I wondered how he could be so bright, blunt, and figure things out without hitting them quite on the head. I felt so torn: I couldn't tell him everything then, but suppose he just bolted? He'd end up back at the Capital Palace, with Mabel and her girl friend Xaviera.

  I decided to keep him as entertained as possible. To get his mind off everything. We went out to stupid first-run movies. French restaurant lunches. Shopping at Bloomingdale's. The ritzy little stores around Union Station. Then into Alexandria and Chevy Chase. I told him that I suddenly needed some new clothes; it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He brought me over to the stuff he liked. We ended up buying some really nice things for him. We found a beautiful long-sleeved silk shirt in an emerald green, a green so deep it looked black. He looked gorgeous in it. As well as an impeccable white linen shirt with two front, button-flapped pockets—Italian; it cost a fucking fortune—and two pairs of pants, one a light brown tweed sprinkled with burgundy threads; the other a pair
of pleated English chinos from Ralph Lauren. I paid for them in cash. Birthday presents, I told him, although his birthday was months away. Why not? There was no telling how long we'd need the money.

  To make matters more interesting, during the following week Reggy called and asked us if we wanted to sell Holy Resurrection. It seemed that the family had finally landed a real bid on it. The Sudanese consulate had decided that the area was promising for an office. They couldn't afford Georgetown, but this part of the city was do-able. They were willing to offer some legitimate money and settle in. He made an appointment to see us the next morning.

  He came over in full lawyer drag. Conservative money suit. Blinding-white shirt. Power-yellow tie. Two men came with him who were the darkest I'd ever seen. They were dressed poorly and were so soft-spoken I could barely hear them. Reggy showed them around, waving them through like kids. But they seemed, if I could judge between silences, to be pleased.

  Reggy was pleasant, acting straight as he could. He came off being really oily. He kept saying, "You guys have done a real job here," like he'd never seen us before. A few hours later, he called back. Wright was out with George; Robert and I were between shopping excursions when the phone rang.

  Later, that evening, I told Wright the story. The family, Reggy said to me, was not happy about an "AIDS Foundation" on their property. It gave the place a bad name.

  "They think it's no good for the community," Reggy said on the phone. Before I could say anything, he went on to remind me that there was a restriction of use covenant in the sale papers, a clause that would continue no matter who bought the house. "That's why—before you signed—I asked Wright about his intentions. Remember? Well, the family was serious about that. Look, it's no big deal; they're willing to give you your money back. You might even make a little something on the side. But I'm afraid they want you out. Soon, guys. And I might as well tell you, they've empowered me to do it."

  "Maybe we should 'out' him," I said to Wright. "Blow the damn whistle on him."

  "Yeah, then everyone will hate us—most of all, Reggy." Wright had that look he got when he was under too much pressure: like he'd pop. "We're not making great progress with the eighth tablet. So far, all it's about is sheep and goats. Who owns what."

  "Maybe there won't be anymore," I said. "Just because all the tablets were found together doesn't mean they all belong that way."

  "They've got to be," Wright answered; he clinched his jaw. "I can't stand this anymore. I'm so sick of this place. One more week—that's it. Final. We'll give it one more week."

  "Then what happens?"

  Wright paused. I was afraid to tell him that Robert had mentioned leaving; there was no telling where he'd end up. And us? Where would we end up next?

  "Home," Wright answered.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The night of Reggy's visit, Robert woke us up at three in the morning. His head was literally on fire. The only thing I had in the house was aspirin. "We've got to get you to a hospital," Wright said. "How long have you had this fever?"

  "I started feeling bad just before I went to bed," Robert answered.

  Wright asked him how his body and joints felt. "Terrible," Robert answered. Could he stand a trip in the car? I asked him. Should we call an ambulance? "Let's go in the car," he said moaning. "I don't think I'm going to have diarrhea or anything."

  We all dressed and I took a blanket with us and wrapped it around him in the back seat. I brought some cold, wet washcloths to apply to his head, and sat with him while Wright drove up front. Wright was wonderful, completely concerned. It was like he'd become a different person, only interested in Robert's well-being.

  The emergency room at Washington Public Hospital seemed like a full-moon night at a madhouse—constant noise and chaos, although we were told this was an off-night. "You should see it after one of those big drug busts," the admitting clerk, a neatly dressed black woman in a white uniform said. "Gunshots. Broken glass. Cops all over the place. Kids screaming because they've been hit or their parents have. Everything!"

  She asked if Robert had a doctor, and Robert said no. Not a real one. He also didn't have any real insurance, or real money to pay anything. Several social agencies had pieced together some public assistance for him. He was getting Social Security disability payments, and was told that he would not be able to collect it for any time he spent hospitalized. It was a "Catch-22" situation: You're so poor that you need help. But you won't get it, when you're most vulnerable. "I'm sorry," the clerk said to Robert. "But we gotta report you to them. Are these your next-of-kin?"

  I told her we weren't, but could we stay with him in his room for a while? She said she was sorry, but it was way past visiting hours. "If you were next-of-kin, it would be okay. But no way now."

  We found three hard folding chairs together, and sat in the waiting room. At 3:30 a.m. the light felt blinding. My eyes could barely stay open. Although Robert was in the blanket, his teeth chattered. I put my arms around him to keep him warmer. Every minute seemed like twenty. There were constant distractions as people in white uniforms ran past us. The only nice thing was having Robert so close to me. An hour later, a thin male nurse came by with a fat clipboard. "Are you Robert?" he asked. Robert shook his head. "Feelin' like shit, aren't you?" Robert agreed, and the nurse took him up to the elevators. I felt completely helpless, like I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to him.

  "Suppose he dies up there?" I asked Wright.

  "He won't," Wright said and hugged me for a second. There were still half a dozen people in the waiting room, including a middle-class Dominican family with a six-year-old son with a stomach virus. They spoke no English and there was no Spanish interpreter at that hour. I felt bad for them. The husband smiled at me. I could vouch for them that being a foreigner was hell. "You'd better get some sleep," Wright said, leading me back to the car. "You look like death on three continents."

  I couldn't go back to sleep. It had never occurred to me that Robert might get sick again, too sick to make the trip back with us. Then I realized that I didn't know how to bring him back—but obviously Wright did. He was fast asleep next to me. I couldn't get over the way he slept. The most complete solid peace. Was he thinking about being back there, being King of the Mountain on Ki? Or was he simply Wright, this man I adored, who took over with such compassion when Robert got sick?

  I woke up at eight A.M. I looked and felt like hell. I showered and shaved, went into the kitchen, and made some coffee. Wright, naked and eye-strained, stumbled in. "I've got to see Robert," I told him. He asked me if I wanted him to drive me to the hospital. I told him I'd do it myself, as much as I hated to drive.

  "I'd better drive you," he said. "I'll wait outside in the car. I just don't want to go back in the hospital. I'm starting to think that hospitals make me sick."

  So, he was distancing himself from the situation—probably, he wanted to go back to George's as soon as possible. To be lost again in his Assyriology puzzles. I had another cup of coffee, while Wright took a dump and then showered. He looked much better, fresh, fairly relaxed. "Remember," he said, just before we left the house, "We've got to get him back soon. That's the important thing."

  I felt pissed, but said nothing. Robert wasn't important to him, only getting him back. That was all. He drove me to Washington Public, and parked the car. "Why don't you go on," I said coldly, before I got out of the car. "I'll get back—either take a cab, or find my way on the buses."

  "Okay, sweetheart." His eyes focused over my head. "George and I are about ready to solve the puzzle." He leaned over to kiss me, but I got out before he could.

  I told the new day clerk downstairs that I was Robert Hetzak's brother. "Half-brother," I explained. "Mom's second marriage."

  "Good enough," she said. "'Still makes you kin. It says here," she looked into a loose-leaf book, "that Mr. Hetzak's condition is guarded. So we only lettin' in kin now. You can go on up, Mr. Kostenbaum."

  I went up to the fi
fth floor. The hallways were crowded with sick people on stretchers. The open door of every room revealed another misery, another bad turn in life. Most of the patients were black, although many were Hispanic or poor and white.

  I got to Robert's room. It was a large one, with three other beds. In the first bed, a nervous old man was watching television. He had sunken cheeks, tight white hair, and a face scarred and darkened like an old potato. He clicked off the sound when I approached. "You must be here for the sick kid from last night." He began to spit his words out, "If he's got AIDS, I don't want him near me! The pansies and the fancy cocaine runners are ruining our community, like plain heroin wasn't bad enough! I saw World War Two. I been on the streets and I seen it all. What kind of shame are you people settin' loose on us?"

  I didn't say anything to him. Robert was in the back, with the bed drapes drawn around him. I entered the draped area. He looked terribly pale. His eyes were closed. He had two IV's connected to him.

  "Hi," I said. I got closer to him and kissed his face.

  He opened his eyes. "Oh, it's you. Was I a mess last night?"

  I told him he wasn't.

  "Did the doorkeeper stop you? He just rattled away all night. When it's not the TV working, it's his mouth." I told him I was sorry. "They told me I could have died. Can you believe that? Died? I think I'm going to die just from being here. This place sucks"

  "We're going to get you out of here as soon as possible. I told them I was your half-brother. That makes me your next-of-kin."

  He smiled. He loved the intrigue. I asked him if he wanted us to call his parents.

  "Why?"

  "Shouldn't they know?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure I can take the rejection from them right now. The last time I called home—about a month ago, my father brought up again how I'd dropped out of an expensive college. They'd given me everything. What a fuck-up I was. I'll never go back. I'd die on the streets before I'll go back to Windsor Heights. Anyway, this embarrasses the hell out of my mother. Her club ladies would never—"