by James Gregor
The line from Dante came to him. There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery. There is no greater sorrow than to feel like a horny loser in Brooklyn. There is no greater sorrow than to feel ugly and unstylish in Williamsburg . . . something, something.
Yes, on the weekends he wanted someone there in the morning when he woke up, a warm body, a young man who might stay instead of springing from bed and bounding out the door in a flash of impatient emancipation.
“It is nice to have someone there on Sundays,” Patrick said, a dreamy look in his eyes, as if reading Richard’s mind.
He would know, Richard thought, taking out his phone and clicking open Grindr. The faces and torsos and crotches loaded as the locator sent its sensory shock wave over the surrounding blocks. Below his picture, a blue-eyed brunette wrote, True confession: I haven’t been in love for years. I always fall for the ones who don’t give a shit. A moment later, a picture of his buttocks arrived.
They went outside and sat on one of the wooden benches, which were as wobbly as the tables inside, and Patrick lit a cigarette. He explained that he was considering modifying his dissertation again, after reading the autobiography of Alexander Herzen, the nineteenth-century Russian liberal. Herzen had a best friend named Ogarev, a fellow student at Moscow University. Herzen described one of the most important nights of his life when, as an adolescent, he went walking with Ogarev on the Sparrow Hills overlooking Moscow. They were both secret liberals. This was in the midst of the post-1825 crackdown, after the Decembrists, free-thinking aristocrats, had been crushed and disbanded. Herzen and Ogarev embraced each other and vowed to sacrifice their lives to the struggle.
“That’s very romantic,” Richard said.
Of course, Russians rushed into love, especially nineteenth-century Russians; they threw themselves under trains for it. Is that what he should have done, declare his feelings for Patrick in a dramatic gesture, instead of hanging around in this courtly suspension, like a medieval troubadour who sings but never touches, like poor dead Guido Guinizelli himself?
Perhaps in a Russian love story by now they too would have embraced each other and vowed to sacrifice themselves for something, perhaps for each other (political struggles not being Richard’s thing, exactly).
“It is very romantic, isn’t it?” Patrick said.
The political stuff was all well and good, he continued, but the unarticulated dynamics of the friendship between Herzen and Ogarev were distracting. Were those two lovers? Or maybe it was just one of those confusing nineteenth-century-style male friendships where they expressed their love ardently but it was platonic? Or perhaps one of those English boarding school things, where it was sexual but only as a kind of prelude to the more real, valid, legitimate heterosexual love that would lead to a family and establishment in society?
“I think all of that sounds great,” said Richard. “You could turn it into a book. Queering Russian politics or whatever. The academic presses would go gaga for it. Just throw in some Foucault.”
“How’s your writing going?”
“It’s getting better.” Richard looked at the ground when he said this. “Slowly.”
“What changed?”
“Oh, a few things.”
Patrick was a problem in this whole situation, one that had been until then fairly easy to ignore because they didn’t see each other as often anymore. When Richard had begun having lunch with Anne, Patrick immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was yet another kind, hapless woman with a crush on a gay man. With this in mind, Richard decided that it was best not to disclose Anne’s assistance. Patrick would think it ridiculous, or possibly cruel, that they had continued seeing each other.
To the uninitiated, Patrick could come off as some kind of feckless urban decadent, a tall amoral partier with a cigarette-ravaged voice—it was his natural voice—who didn’t care passionately about much beyond the tawdry personal sphere, but this was far from correct. While he was less outwardly political than many of their contemporaries—Patrick’s outer politics were now largely confined to signing petitions online and watching Al Jazeera—he was in a sense very inwardly political. Despite his cynicism about a great many things, he still believed in the sacred inviolability of scholarship, the way some people still believed in the sacred inviolability of money, religion, or even art.
They were very honest with each other—at least it felt that way, though how could you ever really tell? Patrick did most of the talking. This reduced the difficulty, Richard supposed. And there were many things they could talk about.
He’d had no trouble telling Patrick that he couldn’t get his work done, for instance; he had not felt an ounce of shame about revealing the apathy and blurring that came over him as he tried to interest himself in the material that was supposed to be his career, although Patrick’s response had not been what Richard expected or what he needed. Patrick told him he was probably just lazy, or indulgent, but otherwise he hadn’t bothered probing far into the problem, just Okay, that’s not good. There was no condescension dressed up as sympathy, but there was no assistance either. Now that Patrick was living this swamped but electrified life in New York, and had Valdes to think about, he expended much less effort trying to solve Richard’s problems. Considering this, Richard felt resentful.
Just then Courtney emerged from Sloppy, a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights in hand. This saved Richard from explaining to Patrick what exactly had changed.
“I hate morning sickness,” Courtney said, taking a seat beside Richard.
“It’s the afternoon,” Patrick said, clearly annoyed at her arrival.
“Afternoon sickness then.”
“When’s it due?”
“It’s two months along.”
Patrick blew smoke in her direction, eyeing her flat belly skeptically.
“I can’t tell.”
“I’m lucky that way,” she said. “I’m an ectomorph.”
“Me too,” Patrick said.
Richard nodded, agreeing with these assessments. It was a taxonomy used often on some of the dating sites he frequented, and he was becoming well versed in it.
Patrick motioned toward the cigarette in Courtney’s hand. “You’re smoking?”
“I hear some judgment from you. Judgment is a trigger for me.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“I just take a puff once in a while. When I’m stressed.”
“Pregnancy isn’t easy these days,” Richard said, attempting conciliation.
“When was it ever easy?” Courtney said, lighting the cigarette. She inhaled once, exhaled pleasurably, and then stubbed it out under her sandal. “Your roommate came by the other day, Richard. He’s a sweetie.”
“Leslie?”
“He gave me a really big tip, like, huge.”
“You know what they say about guys who leave big tips,” Patrick said.
“He sat and talked to me for a while. He was sweet and he listened.”
“Hard to believe,” Richard said.
“I guess he’s had a tough time? He had a bit of a smell, but you know, that’s just the human body.”
Richard knew the smell she was referring to—the greasy off-gassing of his long, dread-locking blond hair, combined with the odor of whatever it was he kept in his room that he never disposed of. After plunging into a depression following his comprehensive exams, Leslie was on an extended leave, with a blank ferment in his eyes that made you want to avoid confronting him about anything.
“Surprise, surprise,” Courtney said, stuffing the cigarettes into her pocket. “Pasquale is watching. I better go.”
Pasquale was the owner of Sloppy, an enigmatic figure in cargo shorts and Birkenstocks whom no one knew much about, except that he had once been exonerated of a grave crime in his home country. He was standing at the window now, watching them.
“Thanks for listening, guys. Have a good day.”
“There’s no baby in there,” Patrick said
once Courtney was gone.
“I know, but she gives me free coffee sometimes.”
Patrick lit another cigarette. He relayed that he had gone dancing with Toller and the boys the night before. Out of all the people there—an illegally smoky, underground storage space—Patrick had been the tallest. Standing in the middle of the dance floor, lasers and lights raking his face, he’d hopped from foot to foot and rotated his head with a contemptuous sneer. Aren’t you the king of the castle? Toller had screamed, and spanked him as he danced off to the bar to get more drinks.
“Doesn’t he creep you out?” Richard asked.
Toller’s appearance—his prematurely wrinkled face under peroxided hair, his lurid hands with their embossed network of veins—made Richard uneasy. “I mean, doesn’t Valdes get jealous?”
“When we’re alone he usually just sits on the sofa and rambles. I go through his closet. He does creep me out sometimes.”
“Did he try something?”
“I’m big enough to sort of bat him away if he comes too close. But he didn’t get the chance. We went back to the loft and he got into a fight with Barrett and they sort of fell down the stairs. Toller tore his jacket. He was limping around moaning that it was Gucci, and like, showing everyone the label.”
Patrick said that Barrett had broken his ankle, but that he’d been too drunk to realize it until he woke up the next morning with a swollen leg. Richard was overcome with a familiar jealousy. If only he was an equal member of this group of young men who were so passionately attached to each other, instead of floating out on his own, tethered to them only by Patrick.
“I’m quitting therapy,” Patrick said.
“Why?”
“It’s too obvious. I can see exactly what the therapist is doing.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s trying to link my present-day problems with a distant father and an overbearing mother and oh, I don’t know, it’s all such a yawn.”
There it was: Richard hadn’t even started therapy yet and Patrick was already finished.
“Sounds old-fashioned,” Richard said, trying to retaliate somehow against Patrick but not having the right words and feeling too deflated to be effective.
“Whatever. I feel good these days. I’m having a lot of fun,” Patrick said, and Richard nodded.
The barometric gloom, which had briefly lifted, settled on him again. It was foolish to expect any indulgent reassurance from Patrick, any sentimental or tribal preference; pointless to wait for a reprieve from the judgment that lurked, its snout to the ground. Yes, Patrick cared, but his concern revealed itself as a feature of his own invulnerability, an invulnerability he clearly thought Richard should simply take on himself. Commander Patrick made no concessions, Richard thought bitterly. His appraisal of any difficulty was always rational and proportional, the advice sensible and brutalizing. Instead of extending a hand to lift you onto the boat, he tossed out a life jacket and observed your technique. How many times had Richard wanted to scream at him, I know what I should do, but can’t you see that I’m miserable? He knew that Patrick would consider any such declaration laughably dramatic and maudlin.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Richard said.
Patrick tossed his cigarette to the curb.
“I have to go,” Patrick said. “Valdes is waiting for me.”
SEVEN
Looking for a temporary solution to his immovable low spirits, Richard texted Anne two days later. Predictably, she was free. They spent the morning in the library, working on another paper, Anne so thrilled by their collaboration that she kept whispering loudly, nearly hissing.
“We’re like monks copying manuscripts while the barbarians roam outside,” she said. “On their phones.”
Not so loud, Richard thought, gritting his teeth. He glanced around the crowded library, eyelids flickering with paranoid annoyance. What if Antonella walked in? Couldn’t she be quiet?
“Yes, everyone should be reading Petrarch,” he said with an edge to his voice.
Either not hearing or not acknowledging the sarcasm, Anne merely nodded.
When she left for one of the distant bathrooms, he was happy for the temporary peace. In her absence, he passed the time by clicking through a dating app. The inevitable tapestry of longing and disappointment filled the screen of his phone. The closest guy called himself the Butt Police.
’Cause I’m lookin’ at your REAR!
Butt Police was only fifty feet away. Richard glanced around the library again, in search of a horny Cycloptic eye peeking out at him from behind a bookcase. Maybe someone wanted a hand job in the Chinese History section. But no, just like always, everyone was intent on their work except for him.
The next-closest guy was called Size Queen. Girth wins! he wrote.
Richard closed the app and inspected Anne’s belongings, the taut silver wall of her computer screen, behind which the thinking happened. Signs posted around the library detailed recent thefts. He would karate-chop anyone who approached, or give them a hand job.
He was feeling increasingly sarcastic and bored. Despite an earlier resolution to tip the balance of work back in his direction, today was going just like the other days had gone: he made suggestions, Anne debated and considered them for a minute, batting them around like a dead mouse, before dropping them conclusively.
They weren’t that bad, he thought, disgruntled.
She did praise him, he had to admit. She said that he could certainly do what she was doing. Whatever blockage he suffered from would surely afflict her at some point, and then she would come to him for the same kind of help. It was a mutually beneficial exchange, just a bit deferred. She sent him to faraway stacks to retrieve volumes by John Freccero, Elena Lombardi, and Benedetto Croce. Attentive, he was like a good assistant, ensuring she had water or coffee or snacks, which he went out to purchase with her credit card. And though Richard was convinced their arrangement was symbiotic—or, at the very least, that Anne didn’t care if it was or wasn’t—he nevertheless felt a sense of lurking worthlessness that threatened to eat away at this magnanimous conclusion.
But offsetting this feeling was yet another, an elusive sentiment somewhere between affection and desire, a movement that he felt in her presence, and a needling, distracting urge to know where she was, to keep tabs on her. It was a newly hatched feeling, a hazy yearning that tended to crowd out whatever annoyance or resentment he might have felt.
Anne returned from the bathroom, smiled at him, and went back to work. He watched her type with a gathering momentum, now admiringly, if not a little jealously, wishing he could join wherever it was she was going.
They stayed at the library for several more hours, and then went to a Vietnamese restaurant downtown for a late lunch. Anne said she wanted new sunglasses, so afterward they walked around the Lower East Side and SoHo looking in boutiques. Despite visiting a dozen places, she didn’t find anything she liked. By four o’clock Richard was sick of the groups of shoppers and harried tourists crowding the sidewalks.
But he was also drawn into this comfortable and intimate annoyance. They hadn’t spoken in over half an hour and it didn’t seem to matter. They walked in a dazed, complacent silence, every once in a while bumping into each other, and each time it happened, he wondered if they might continue on like that, stuck together.
When meeting a friend or a loved one in Midtown or the Financial District or any other especially imposing section of the city, Richard sometimes got the feeling of a barely pulled-off heist of human closeness, of snatching something tender from the obdurate, unyielding air, the thickets of skyscrapers and the imperturbable density of concrete. The city could feel infinitely warm and welcoming, it wanted to endorse his presence, and yet he was the cold fish, the one who couldn’t accept its lavish gifts.
Maybe if it had been up to him, and there were no consequences, he would have found himself somewhere else, at Urge or Eastern Bloc or another small gay bar. Then again, after
the sputtering doggy paddles across the dating pool, which always left him shivering and cold, it was a relief to spend time with Anne. Just the few hours they’d passed together that morning in quiet, concentrated production had cast a calm and therapeutic air over the rest of the day. Anne’s energy was jarring but invigorating, an inconclusive mix of maturity and immaturity. She was like a child let loose in the restraint and focus of an adult. But she was also like a mother who hands you a heavy towel and squeezes you after you’ve wrapped it around your shoulders, telling you to dry your hair because you lose heat through your head. At odd moments he found himself enchanted. As they stopped at a red light, he wanted to reach out and touch her face, stroke her hair. He caught himself glancing at her breasts. Perhaps it was for no other reason than that she was so novel, she was so unlike everyone else. Despite the epic and touted diversity of its population, the people he met in New York, the inevitable cul-de-sacs, one’s career or one’s social circles, could end up being dishearteningly similar.
They began walking north, and then Anne turned west. He followed without asking where they were going, but the destination became clear when she said, “You still haven’t seen my new place.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s close by. We can stop and rest for a minute.”
Since their meal in the French restaurant, several weeks ago now, Anne had not brought up the lazy Saturday proposal, but the details were still vivid in his mind: the gym, the pool, the sauna made from Japanese fir trees where he would be expected to disrobe.