“A glass of wine a day is fine. I’m having half a glass now and will have another half a glass later.” He holds up the glass for a toast. “Here’s to my jewel of a brother.”
I don’t reciprocate. “What’s all this buttering up for?”
“You have every right to be angry with me. Did you read my note?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what! You said you have some explaining to do. I’ll wait until I hear it.” I sip the wine, then taste the paella. It’s delicious.
“You’ll never taste chicken paella better than this. Carlos’ mother was impressed with it.” His brow contracts. A look of embarrassment comes over his face.
“So I guess that was Carlos on the phone just now?”
He nods.
You could give Carlos the telephone number to call you here, but you yourself didn’t have the decency to call. “You and he are what? Business partners?”
“Business partners! I know what you’re thinking. But if I was in the drug business I wouldn’t arrive here penniless.”
“Maybe you spent it all to bribe the immigration officers so you could leave. Maybe you’re lucky to make it out alive. I guess that’s part of the forthcoming explanation.”
His face grows tense, a hand goes to his chin, he bites his lower lip, and looks down at the table.
Bullseye.
His salad contains red beans, onions, tomatoes, and avocado. It’s delicious. “At least you’ve learnt to cook. It’s no longer a sissy occupation.”
“Drop it, Jay. Remember I left here on a voyage of self-discovery. What I was before doesn’t count. I was just over 19 when I left. It feels like I have lived two lifetimes since. On the plane, I kept telling myself that you and I are going to get along swell because we are more alike than you know, and now here we are bickering.”
“Judging from how you treated Ma, basic decency isn’t something we have in common. I’ll say no more. I promise.” I give him facing palms.
“Where’s Ma buried?”
“In Havre. I put off the funeral here for two weeks, hoping you’d find out. I had her cremated and took the ashes to Havre. I lied to cover up your absence. I fooled Daddy but I didn’t fool Haverites. Members from Ma’s church had already sent home the news about you.”
“Excuse me. I have to check the oven.”
“What’s in it?”
“Yucca pone.”
“You can bake too!”
His face breaks into a huge grin. “Learned it all from a cookbook, to vary the monotonous diet in Guatemala.”
“Even so you’ve managed to lose weight.”
“Nine kilos. Almost 20 pounds. I left here swaddled in fat. I vowed to take off a layer or two before I got back. The Guatemalan diet made it hard — rice, corn, beans, potatoes — but I was determined. I walked a lot, taught two days a week, and wrote and read in the evenings. Had to leave lots of blanks in my writing though because my diaries were here. Where are Grama’s journals, Jay?”
“The ones we brought back are still in Ma’s room. Remember? There are two cartons we left back in St. Vincent.”
I offer to wash the dishes. Paul shakes his head. “I’ll do it. It’s good to be home again. Are you happy to see me, Jay?”
“I am happy that you are alive.”
“But not to see me, right? And here I was thinking we’d be like buddies again, pick up from where we left off in St. Vincent.”
“Never mind St. Vincent, we’ll talk at the appropriate time. Okay?”
“Why not now?”
“Because I don’t want to. Isn’t that a good enough reason? And you’d better watch your tone. I’m not obliged to take it anymore.”
I return to my room and phone Jonathan. Jonathan reminds me that we’d planned to see CRAZY at 6:30. I speak to Cecile, to thank her for the birthday supper and the sweater she and Raymond gave me.
While dressing I think of Paul’s cooking and washing the dishes. Manipulation. He’s being silky smooth because he already suspects I’m the liquidator for Ma’s will. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked about it yet. After brushing my teeth, I stay in the bathroom a long time thinking. Was Paul the victim of too much attention? In St. Vincent he loved — needed? — Grama so much that he never did anything to anger her. He did his schoolwork without prompting, read all his textbooks by the first month of the school year and turned to mine and all the stuff he found in the library. Reads twice as fast as me. Knowledge flows into him and stays there like water in an elastic cistern. No one could have predicted that he’d become contemptuous of academe. It has happened to others, Jay. Remember CLR James. In secondary school he revolted against his precocity. He later went on to become a leading intellectual. Ease up on Paul.
On my way back to the bedroom, Paul, stretched out on the sofa, asks: “You’re going out?”
“That’s evident. Isn’t it?”
“Quit barking at me! I can’t take it. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave, but I have nowhere to go.”
“Tomorrow I’ll begin the process of settling Ma’s will. Understand? You’ll have your share. I’ll turn every cent over to you, including the money Grama said you shouldn’t have until you are 30, and cut my ties with you.”
“I won’t let you violate the terms of her will.”
“You asked to have it when you were in Costa Rica. I have lots to do. Managing your inheritance isn’t on the list.”
“That’s more than a year ago. In my short life, a year is a long time, especially the first one without a mother and a brother breathing down my neck.”
There’s a long silence. Yes, I’m being hard on him.
“You want to come see a movie with us? I mean Jonathan and me?”
“I don’t know? Should I?”
“Suit yourself.” But he gets up, goes to the bathroom, comes back, and dresses hurriedly.
“How come you’ve lost so much weight?” I ask while Paul is bent tying his shoe laces.
“I don’t have AIDS. Okay? I eat less and walk more. I’ve told you so already. Are you trying to catch me out in lies?”
“On our way out I’ll go to the ATM at the shopping centre and get you some money, so you don’t have to remain cooped up in here. Who’s Carlos?”
His face darkens. One hand goes to the back of his head, the other to his chin.
“By the way, would CSIS, Interpol, or the RCMP be knocking on our doors soon?”
“If they were after me, they’d have held me at the airport.”
“Only if they have enough on you to hold you. Perhaps, they’re waiting for more. I want to know if the telephone is going to be bugged or is already bugged.”
“It won’t be.”
“Paul, it’s almost 14 months that you’ve been incommunicado. You didn’t even get in touch with us when Stan struck Guatemala.”
“You’ll find out why in due course.” He’s shaking his head slowly. “Seems like you want me to give you a blow-by-account. I’ll tell you alright, but in little bits.”
I feel like saying: Who in hell do you think you are? Instead I take a deep breath.
We’re still standing inside the door of the apartment.
“Give me a hug, Jay. Tell me you’re just as concerned about me as you were before we came to Canada and I went bonkers. It’s important. Tell me you don’t judge me.”
“Did you read The Way of Life?”
“At least five times. Thanks. Didn’t I thank you in one of my letters? I meant to.”
“Well, you should know I try not to judge anybody. But I want to know if the RCMP or CSIS will be bugging — or has already bugged — our phone.” I put my hands on his shoulders and stare into his eyes. “Paul, I want to know that you are safe. That nothing’s hanging over you. Is that different from how I was when we
were in St. Vincent?”
“Yes and no. You’re punishing, you’re cold.”
“Sorry. Ma’s death, my suspended studies, your absence, sleepless nights. I can’t help it.”
“Forgive me, Jay. Forgive me. I’m clean enough. If anything was going to happen to me, it would have happened at the Guatemala airport or at Trudeau. I’m fine.” His eyes well up.
“Do you still smoke?”
“No. Let’s go. We’ll discuss all this in due time. First, let me recover.”
24
WE’RE BACK HOME and I’m lying in bed. The outing didn’t go well. Neither Jonathan nor I had seen CRAZY while it was making a splash, and so we profited from its return at the Park Cinema to see it. When Jonathan met us in the foyer and saw Paul, his face became a frown. He nodded at Paul and gave me a mechanical hug. After seeing a film together, he and I would go off to a coffee shop and discuss it. We rarely agree about movies.We’d disagreed about Broke-Back Mountain. I defended Ennis’ reticence and caution, arguing that that was how it had to be for most men who lived in places hostile to gays, not to mention bisexual men. For Jonathan there’s no such thing as bisexuality: “so-called bisexuals” are homosexuals who won’t accept their sexual orientation, or sexual tourists/adventurers sampling the forbidden. Usually he has so many opinions about what he’s seen, he can never get them out in a single sitting. But today when we got to the café, he ordered his usual hot apple cider and sipped it quietly.
“How did you find CRAZY?” I eventually asked him.
“Okay.”
“I thought it was excellent.”
He didn’t reply. Instead he encircled his cup with both hands as if warming them, and stared at the table with his head down.
Paul looked on, his eyes a glassy intensity, the redness from yesterday gone. Jonathan made brief eye contact with Paul and resumed staring at the table. Paul got up and headed to the bathroom.
In the interim Jonathan and I said nothing. When Paul returned, he put on his jacket. “I’ll leave you two to yourselves. Jay, I need the keys to get in.”
Jonathan said: “Have mine.” He took them off his key ring and gave them to Paul.
As soon as Paul was out the door Jonathan asked: “How long are you going to carry that load?”
The question made me uncomfortable. “Not for long.”
“I hope so. Pardon me. I shouldn’t be meddling in your family’s business.”
“Jonathan, you are family: you’re my brother in everything but biology. Did you like CRAZY?”
“Yes, but I don’t feel like discussing that.”
“What do you want to discuss?”
“You know what I want to discuss.” He looked away and took a deep breath. Still looking away he said: “Last night, while you were asleep beside me, I remained awake a long time thinking about you. I wanted to be in your arms.”
I held my breath, surprised.
Jonathan swallowed hard, bit his lip, and his face began to contort. He lowered his head. I watched him trying to control his emotions. He took a deep breath, then asked: “Jay, do you have a secret life?”
Perplexed by the question, I shook my head.
A couple came to sit at a table to our immediate left. The café was almost full: students working on their laptops everywhere. Jonathan lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well, I am more puzzled.”
I breathed deeply. “Jonathan, you and I saw Kinsey and discussed it. Right? Remember what he said about how different everyone’s sexuality is?”
Jonathan groaned. “Sorry I have to be so direct. Have you ever slept with anyone, Jay? I don’t mean that girl you tried fooling the public with.” He grimaced.
“Yes. With you. Last night.”
“Arrête de niaiser!”
Where was this headed? I wiped my sweating hands on my thighs.
“Why’s it so hard to answer?”
“Because it is, Jonathan. It is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had the courage to pursue anyone that far or to fall for anyone pursuing me. Not successfully at any rate.”
“Not even me!”
This was slippery terrain. I tried to find an innocuous answer. “Jonathan, I never thought you were interested in me that way. Why didn’t you raise the subject before? Why only now?”
“We’ve just watched CRAZY, haven’t we?” His eyes brilliantly blue, his face flushed, he looked away. “Your mother’s dead, Paul’s been found, and you’ve just celebrated your 27th birthday. I know there’ll be radical changes in your life.” He stopped talking, looked down at the table, then fixed me with a shy smile. “Frankly, I’m being selfish. Not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t want to be left out.”
“Of course, you’ll be included. Unless you choose not to. You’ll remain my closest friend.”
Jonathan groaned. “Why are you so damn naïve?” He clenched his teeth, hissed. “Remember what Paul said when he saw us sitting on the sofa? . . . For years, Jay — years — I’ve been hoping that you’d see I desire you as more than a friend . . . and would reciprocate. The nights I’ve spent fantasizing about the sort of life we could have together!” He shook his head slowly. “I’ve been in love with you since we met in CEGEP. Remember when I told you Mama thought you were my boyfriend? That wasn’t the whole story. I’d told her that I wanted you to be my boyfriend, but you weren’t taking any of my hints. You understand, Jay? Do you? I want you — more than anything else, more than my PhD even.”
I was stumped. I thought of sex with Jonathan and felt my skin constricting. “Jonathan, when I complete my doctorate I’d like to teach on the African continent, and eventually I would like to resettle in the Caribbean. It’s a deep need I feel. I have to experience Africa. It’s vital for my psyche. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know why. Apart from South Africa, there’s nowhere in Africa where you and I could be together as a couple. Have you seen or read the news lately about Nigeria’s antigay legislation, and about the havoc Anglican bishops from Nigeria, Rwanda, Tanzania are causing in the Anglican Church worldwide over the gay issue? In the North of Nigeria, we’d certainly face death by stoning. All African countries, except South Africa — all, Jonathan, all — are busy expanding their anti-gay laws. Speaking about the Caribbean — and it’s there that I may well have to work, do you know about the Caribbean songs advocating death for gays? When I was home for my mother’s funeral, those were the songs playing on the buses and in people’s homes. Even the politicians have been using them against their rivals in their campaigns, because, for Africans and West Indians, to be gay is to be subhuman. A minister in the government of St. Vincent, my birthplace, said at a conference recently that he’d like to set all gays on fire. I read in a Vincentian online newspaper that in his final rally just before voting day last year, the prime minister hurled homophobic abuse at the opposition’s campaign manager, believed to be gay, and then played T.O.K.’s ‘Burn Chi-Chi Man-dem,’ to great applause. You know what West Indians and Africans call homosexuality? The white man’s disease. Do you know how many West Indians are murdered each year just because they’re gay? Do you know how many of the murderers are arrested and charged? None. The police look the other way. Sometimes they lead the assault. It’s ten years in prison, Jonathan — ten years — that’s the penalty for committing same-sex acts in all the countries of the English-speaking Caribbean — if the person survives it to trial. And you know what’s just as awful: they think their treatment of gays makes them morally superior to Europeans and Canadians, and righteous in God’s sight. Their model for dealing with gays is the Sodom and Gomorrah story.”
His knuckles went white from the force with which he held onto the edge of the table.
“The summer just before I left Havre to come here, the townspeople almost killed two gay fellows. They surrounded their house, stood three-four at
every window, broke down the door, entered, and boxed, kicked and stomped the fellow and his partner. You know what the police said when they came: ‘Serve the bullers right. The laws must change so we can clean the vermin out.’ No charges were ever laid. I heard a woman telling my grandmother that if she’d been there she’d have doused them with kerosene and set them on fire: ‘Set them on fire same way God rain down fire on Sodom and Gomorrah.’ A few days later someone burned their house down.”
For a long time Jonathan stared through the glass into the lighted street, his worry lines deep. “And you want to return there!” He shook his head with incredulity. “How could you want to return to such a place?” He pleated his lips and pressed them together, and stared with squinting eyes into mine.
“Because it’s my home, Jonathan.”
“Some home.”
“There’s another thing, Jonathan. I want to be a father and have a home with my children and their mother.”
His face turned grey. He looked away. I felt guilty lying to him.
Did I take Jonathan for granted? He had latched on to me the way I imagine parents take to their adopted children, and he’d got all the help he needed from his parents.
If I’d known about the sexual attraction, would I have befriended him with the same openness? At the time he disclosed his sexuality, our friendship was three years old. He’d already become like a brother, and his sexuality mattered only insofar as he was or wasn’t comfortable with it. Our friendship would have probably ended if he’d told me the full story. I’d have felt that his kindness was motivated by his desire. Took him seven years to tell me that he’s been in love with me. And why hadn’t I suspected? On the trip back to Montreal that December I’d felt that he was merely sharing his pain. He talked of his classmates’ cruelty in high school. They’d replaced his name with tapette and fiffy. Having seen CRAZY, I understand now what he’d borne. He told me he’d chosen to attend an English CEGEP to avoid meeting his high school classmates.
Two summers after that first visit to Lac Sept-Îles, I went back, this time for a week. Then we were both MA students at Concordia. That was when I told him about my own sexual ambivalence, and it was then that Jonathan said that his mother had thought he and I were lovers. He was feeling me out — I see that now — and I chose not to notice.
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