Queer Ulysses

by Guy Willard

  From the unseen harbor, a departing freighter hooted three times. The honk of a tugboat answered it, and its sound echoed across the whole city—the most mournful sound in the whole world.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to sleep alone in my bunk tonight.

  I began descending a long flight of stone steps which led down to the street below. Before my eyes stretched the whole panorama of a large Oriental city. And within that marvelous city I knew I could probably find anything I desired, as long as I knew how to look for it.

  The street was a busy, honking hive of activity. I spotted a taxi on the other side and raised my arm. To my surprise, another cab I hadn’t even noticed screeched to a halt just in front of me, the driver’s face pressed to the window in inquiry. I nodded and got in back.

  When the driver peered around at me, I hesitated for a moment. Then, with the recklessness which only comes to you when you’re in a foreign country, I said boldly: “Take me to a gay bar.”

  The driver looked puzzled.

  “A gay bar,” I repeated slowly.

  “Geibah?”

  “Yes. A homosexual bar.”

  “Homosess bah?”

  “Yes. Homosex…two men.” I held up two fingers. “Two men…sex.”

  He tilted his head in perplexity as if confronted by an unfathomable mystery. For a split second I thought he might not know that two men could actually have sex with each other. Then I remembered the Chinese erotic classics I’d read.

  Meanwhile the cab was obstructing the flow of traffic and the other cars were oozing past us with much bleating of horns.

  “Here, look,” I said. Feeling a little foolish, I held out my hands and clenched them into fists. With my right index finger I simulated a penis coming to erection. Then with my left hand I did the same. I brought them together, capping off my pantomime with the explanation: “Gay bar. Homo bar.”

  The driver scratched his head and looked at me closely. Evidently he was convinced he had a dangerous customer on his hands. Leaning over his seat back, he glanced down at my feet, no doubt searching for any weapons I might have concealed. I had the feeling he wanted to get rid of me. But then I spotted the pencil he had lodged behind his ear. Feeling pressured, I grabbed it and pointed to a piece of paper on the front seat. As soon as he handed it to me, I rapidly sketched a picture of two nude men embracing, then held it up for his perusal. “Gay bar,” I repeated.

  He began to nod vigorously. “Ah, yah! Yah! I know. Gei-bah. I take you Taipei.”

  Relieved but wary, I asked, “How much?”

  “Ten dollar.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I sat back in relief, exhausted.

  The driver dropped his baseball cap over the meter and slapped the shifter into gear, and the cab leaped out into the flow of traffic. Nodding and chuckling, happy now that the problem had been solved, he turned around to look at me without even slowing down. “You go gei-bah?”

  I nodded, my terrified eyes glued to the traffic ahead.

  He turned forward again but continued to examine me in the rear view mirror. When he smiled, the silver inlays in his teeth gleamed. But his smile was completely friendly.

  He held up his wrist and tapped at his wristwatch, saying something rapidly in Chinese. I leaned forward, wondering if he meant to raise the fare. I knew it was a 50-minute ride into the capital city.

  But now he tried to explain something in English. I understood that he had to make a stop at his home before leaving Keelung.

  He veered out of our lane and, to my alarm, calmly maneuvered down the opposite lane (whose traffic was halted a block in front of us by a red light.) Just before the light changed and the line of waiting cars (already honking their horns in anticipation) could charge out, he whipped the cab down a narrow side alley.

  Before I knew what was happening, we emerged onto what looked like a spacious schoolyard. Jungle gyms, seesaws, slides whipped past us. We didn’t even slow down. Children, still playing, jumped out of our way to the left and right.

  Then we turned into another lane lined on both sides by small apartment buildings. As we pulled to a skidding halt, the driver jumped out, shouting something at me over his shoulder. Still puzzled, I stepped shakily out and looked around.

  The driver was talking with a woman who was taking down some washing from a drying pole. She stared curiously at me as she listened.

  The driver waved to me. “My wife,” he said, smiling.

  I gave a little bow and smiled in return to her greeting.

  She turned to her husband again and continued their conversation, in the course of which I caught the word, “homo.” The woman peered at me again and smiled—but though there was no malice in it, I felt a little miffed.

  I pointed to myself and said, “Yes, I’m a homo,” as if I were introducing myself. “How do you do?”

  “Homo?”

  “Yes, homo. As in queer. Fairy. Faggot. Fruit loop. Delighted to meet you, my dear.” I held out my hand with the wrist limp, as if I were dangling a purse from it.

  Giggling, she grasped it uncertainly, turning to her husband and repeating, “Homo? Homo?” Then she turned back to me again and pumped my hand vigorously before letting go.

  I pantomimed a curtsey and batted my eyelashes. For some reason I felt an exhilarating release.

  “Out of the closets and into the streets!” I fluted. “You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to say that!”

  Her face crinkled in delight as she brought her sleeve up to her face to hide her laughter.

  I was sure she didn’t know what I was babbling about. Something had triggered my hilarity and I felt impelled by some deep inner need to let it all out. Adopting all the stereotypical gay mannerisms, I began lisping and giggling as I talked with myself. But mixed in with my clowning was a bittersweet feeling of hurt, for I realized I was acting out the degrading fate of so many homosexuals whose role it was to play the clown for the straight world’s entertainment. As long as we kept them laughing, they wouldn’t see the real tears behind our smiles. But once they saw any weakness they’d close in for the kill.

  I got back into the car; the driver danced around to his side and slipped into his seat. With a final wave to his wife, he shifted the gear into reverse and backed the car up. As we pulled away, I waved to his wife and blew her kisses, and continued to do so until she disappeared from view. She never stopped waving and smiling.

  I sank back into the seat cushions. What a strange country, I thought.

  We got to Taipei about 50 minutes later, via the expressway. After the pandemonium of downtown traffic, the highway was relatively relaxing. I knew the Navy had provided a shuttle bus to take sailors to the capital city, but I didn’t mind paying for the luxury of having a cab to myself.

  We headed toward an off-ramp and descended once again into the world of snarled traffic and heart-stopping stunts by daredevil drivers. After cruising around for 20 minutes or so we pulled up in front of a row of bars in a narrow alleyway. One of the bars was a little larger, more garish-looking than its neighbors, and it was the one the driver excitedly pointed out to me.

  “Gei-bah,” he said proudly.

  “Yes, thank you.” I counted out the fare and left a tip. The driver was very happy at this, for tips are very rare in the Orient. I watched him back the car up and disappear around a corner, giving me a last vigorous wave of his hand.

  Evening was falling and neon lights were coming on here and there, giving off their distinctive metallic fizzing sound. I glanced up at the lavender cowboy hat which advertised this bar, the “Far West Club.” Though the name gave me a moment of misgiving, I stepped inside.

  It was dark within. A discreet screen of potted palms prevented me from seeing at a glance what sort of place it was. I stepped in a little farther and saw immediately that it was a place which catered exclusively to foreigners. In the gloom I could pick them out sitting singly or in pairs. Most of them looked like affluent, middle-ag
ed businessmen. I’d come to the wrong place. My intention had been to find a bar where I could meet a Chinese boy. The only Chinese in this place, besides the bartender, were a couple of young boys chatting with an older man.

  Of course there was no way the driver could have known what I wanted. To him gay bars were probably all the same. Since I was already inside, I decided to have a drink before setting out to see what I could find on my own.

  As I walked up to the bar, I felt every eye in the place on me. Obviously I stood out as the only young foreigner there. As casually as I could, I ordered a Tom Collins. There was no need for anyone to know that this was my first-ever visit to a gay bar. The bartender was very handsome, and he smiled at me as he mixed my drink and set it down before me. I started to relax. Unfortunately, the drink turned out to be sickly sweet. It was so hard to get a decent cocktail in the Orient.

  I glanced into the mirror behind the bar as I sipped my drink. A heavyset man in the corner was eyeing me steadily. I tried to signal my disinterest by flicking my eyes away with a bored look but it had no effect. I could tell out of the corner of my eye that he hadn’t left off staring at me.

  To my annoyance, he got up from his booth seat and made his way toward the counter.

  “May I?” he asked as he slid onto the stool next to mine.

  I felt like getting up and leaving, but I just nodded, feeling trapped.

  He wasn’t an American—that much was obvious from his accent. I tried to recall where I’d heard that accent before but couldn’t quite place it. As I sought an excuse to make my escape, I examined him.

  He was quite drunk. His gray suit jacket gaped open, and the knot of his tie had been loosened. The smell of alcohol emanating from him seemed like a permanent aura, and something about him indicated an at-home ease with the besotted state. There were puffy bags under his eyes and rolls of flesh bulged over his collar. Yet from the sensuous look in his heavy-lidded eyes, I could easily imagine that he’d once been quite handsome.

  “Are you an American?” he asked in a raspy voice. He spoke English carefully and precisely as people do when they master it as a second language.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh?” He looked delighted. “An airman?”

  I knew there was a large Air Force base in Taipei so it was only natural that he’d taken me for an airman. I nodded.

  “What’s your job?” he asked.

  “I’m a dental tech. And you?”

  “A businessman.” He said it as if he were slightly sorry that he couldn’t offer a more romantic line of business.

  The ceiling fans clipped the air above our heads, and stale disco music crooned from the wall speakers. The two Chinese boys were dancing together while their companion looked on. I turned back to my own companion and met the stare which had never left me. His eyes gleamed with a steely hardness which was almost cruel. I felt a twinge of uneasiness.

  “So where are you from?” I asked, to shake his stare.

  “Czechoslovakia.”

  So he was from Eastern Europe. And then it hit me: his accent had sounded Russian. “What brings you to Taiwan?”

  “I’m on the advisory board of a shipbuilding firm here.”

  “A Czechoslovakian company?”

  “No, it’s actually owned by certain interests in Taiwan and India.”

  “Oh.” I knew that international business often involved Byzantine methods of operation, but something about the way he explained the situation struck me as being false, and I instinctively knew he was lying. But why should he lie? I became intrigued. “For a second I thought you might be Russian,” I said. “That was my first impression. You have a Russian-sounding accent.”

  “Do I? It’s interesting that you should say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t talk so much.”

  “No, come on. I’m curious.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s not talk about business. It’s so boring.”

  “But you’re the one who started it. You asked me first what my job was.”

  He downed his drink and signaled to the bartender for another. I saw he was drinking bourbon. If he kept on drinking them at this rate, I was sure he’d get drunk enough to let a few more facts slip out—and I was just intrigued enough to wonder what his game was. He seemed to be pondering whether or not to say something. And then he went ahead:

  “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but the Soviets are not looked upon too kindly by the Taipei government.”

  “So?”

  “Well, just suppose that I was attached to an unnamed Eastern bloc embassy here. I wouldn’t want to advertise the fact, would I?”

  “Let’s just say you were. What then?”

  “You seem interested.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  He gave a deep throaty chuckle. “One might almost think you believed everything I was just saying.”

  “Come on, why are you making fun of me?”

  “I’m not. But I could get into serious trouble if I kid you any longer.”

  “You’re only making me more interested...as if you didn’t know. You’re good at this, you know that? What are you, a Soviet spy or something?”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.” He peered closely at me. “What would you do if I was one? Hmm?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Of course not. Why would a Soviet agent—just assuming I was such a thing—be interested in a young airman like you? I mean, I doubt if you would have access to any military secrets which would be of any value.”

  “And what makes you think I don’t?”

  “You’re just a dental tech, after all.”

  “Do you believe everything you’re told?”

  I found the situation indescribably delicious. Wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing we’d been warned about in boot camp? I remembered the instructors solemnly lecturing about why homosexuality was prohibited in the armed services: a foreign agent could use the knowledge to blackmail you into giving away military secrets. At the time I’d laughed at the ridiculousness of the explanation, and yet here I was in that classic scene. It was so hackneyed that I expected at any moment for a director to pop out and yell, “Cut!”, then complain about our third-rate acting.

  What added spice to the situation was that he might actually be a Soviet agent. Yet I couldn’t believe that any agent would make himself this obvious, especially on the first meeting. What was more likely was that he was actually an American working with military intelligence to catch unwary, loose-lipped airmen. If that was the case, I’d have to be careful not to get into trouble. I decided to play dumb, maybe even tease him a little. Two could play at this game…and it was getting to be fun.

  “What time is it?” I asked suddenly.

  He glanced at his watch. “A little after seven.”

  “I’m getting hungry. I guess I’ll go out for a bite to eat.”

  “I know of an excellent restaurant nearby.”

  “No, that’s okay. I just thought….” He was nibbling at the hook.

  “Let me take you there. It’s just around the corner. I’ll even treat you. You’re my guest tonight.”

  “Really? Thanks.”

  We got up to go. He paid both our bills.

  The restaurant was a block and a half away, on the main thoroughfare. Its decor was Western-style and it looked expensive. A glance at the menu confirmed this. Demurely, I ordered the most expensive item on it, a “New York steak” with all the trimmings. My friend didn’t bat an eyelash.

  It was my first steak in a long time and I ate it with gusto. But my companion didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. He watched me eat with glowing eyes as if he got a sensual pleasure out of it.

  “By the way,” I said with my mouth full, “you never did tell me your name.”

  “Call me Dmitri.”

  I stopped eating. “You’re kidding.”

  “Why would I kid you about my own name? What’s yours?�
��

  “Tim.”

  He was almost a parody of a Soviet spy. Not even military intelligence could be this bad. Maybe he really was what he claimed to be. On the other hand, I knew from talking with some of the guys onboard who worked with classified materials that there were many Soviet agents around. The Soviets had been known to be incredibly clumsy sometimes.

  “That was a delicious meal,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  “My pleasure. I’m glad you liked it.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s still a little early. Where would you like to go now?”

  “I have no special plans. Why?”

  “The reason I ask is that there is a wonderful view of the city from my hotel room.”

  “Who writes your scripts for you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry. I was just talking to myself.”

  “So...would you like to come to my room?”

  I glanced around and said in a low voice: “It’s gonna cost you.”

  “I understand,” he replied evenly.

  I shrugged. “Then let’s go.”

  He signaled for the check.

  The Hotel Marco Polo turned out to be within walking distance of the restaurant. On the way there I amused myself with the various scenarios I could act out when I got to his room. Despite my hint that my sexual favors were available for a price, I had no intention of actually going through with it. When the time came, I could always play dumb, and act like the straight who didn’t know he was being propositioned. If he really was a Czech businessman, though, I had nothing to lose by going to bed with him. I even wondered idly how much money I could make off him. But I had to act on the assumption that he was either a Soviet agent or an American posing as one. Nothing I’d said or done so far could incriminate me. I hadn’t told him my real name. He didn’t even know I was in the Navy. The remark I’d let slip about it “costing” him could be taken to mean anything. I was completely covered.

  As we approached the hotel, however, my euphoria began to fade. I began to get scared. In the elevator, my drunken companion hummed disconnected snatches of an unfamiliar tune.

  We got off on the eighth floor. My paranoia mounted. I had a mental vision of the hotel room in which every piece of furniture was clearly visible, even down to the hidden cameras and concealed microphones. My name was not known, but I wouldn’t be able to deny anything if there were photos as evidence.