The Lost Language of Cranes: A Novel

by David Leavitt

  For years he had felt safe only in his apartment, only with Rose. But now everything had turned around. The apartment was the place where he was afraid. Unidentifiable dangers lurked in the corners, waiting to spring. Static electricity clung to the walls, the bedspread, the sofa. He could not touch his fingers to any surface without risking a tiny shock. Worst of all, the threat was obscure. It hid like a coward, refused to show its face. He could not name it. He grew so anxious he had to flee into the open placelessness of the city, where, if not safety, he found at least the company of other scared strangers. There was a brotherhood of middle-aged men who wandered on Sunday afternoons, looking at one another gravely across streets, never nodding. They shuffled past Owen on the sidewalks, the shoulders of their trenchcoats brushing his. They emerged at dusk from empty office buildings and hailed cabs. All of them had hats bent over their faces, downcast eyes suggesting secrets. They all had secrets. And yet Owen at least was getting tired of his. Yes, if anyone asked him now, he'd tell all, though it would do him no good anymore; he'd tell for spite. But no one asked him. Not even Rose seemed to suspect anything of him; he had stood right in front of her just this afternoon, staring her in the face with it, and she hadn't seen it. He had thought he might have to turn away from the stupid confusion in her eyes then, the way they went blank and her mouth twitched. She had struggled for words. Such effort, and all for nothing! Why bother? Why not shout it out right then and there, in the street? After all, as soon as they were evicted from their apartment they would be street people anyway. Already they wandered the city separately, as if in preparation for the oncoming solitary poverty in which they'd soon start to run into each other: he unshaven, his clothes rotting, sleeping in men's shelters, eating soup made from potato peelings; Rose scraggly-haired and dirty, her legs covered with sores. They'd be on line at the lice clinic, waiting to be shampooed and shaved, and Owen, thinking he recognized her, would say, "Excuse me—Rose? Is that you, Rose?" And slowly she would emerge from her stupor, turn and look at him, her skin sallow and smeared with filth, her lips cracked, as his were, hair greasy; should he go on? He could go on, he knew, coloring in the details of their ruin. To make themselves into such creatures—that would be triumphant! That would be a spit in the face of this life.

  Rose looked at him; she opened her mouth. She was making noises in the back of her throat, preparing to say something to him; what was it?

  He stopped and kicked at some muddy snow that had caked on the corner. If he were to walk into the Waldorf-Astoria today, no one would notice him in his tweed coat. A pity. He wanted to be thrown out into the gutter. He and Rose hadn't even begun to talk about the arduous task of finding a new apartment; perhaps it would prove too much for them. He thought about this: If he quit his job and took to drinking and lived in an expensive hotel room for a month, the money would run out. He'd be rid of it. It could be done.

  "Lunatic ravings of an old man," Owen said, and was startled to find that he had spoken out loud. A middle-aged woman with bright blond hair, turning and looking at him, pushed the hand of her child tighter into the pocket in which she held it and hurried away from him. Oh, it was cold. He tied the belt of his coat tighter around his waist and moved on.

  He went into the Bijou, a movie theatre on Third Avenue. The woman behind the glass partition took his money, let him through the turnstile as she had practically every Sunday for fifteen years. For a long time this place had terrified him, but now it only tired him. He usually sat in the back row with the other old men who wanted to jerk off and be left alone. Oddly, just as his apartment, that haven of peace and safety, had filled up lately with danger, this place had lost its threat. It was as if he saw it with the houselights turned up, as they never were, and all it was was a room with a lot of chairs stained beyond the point where one could name their original color. Nothing lurked here. There was no mystery.

  Owen sat in the back row. On the screen was a close-up of a boy's face contorted with pleasure, the white liquid dripping down his cheeks, hanging off the ends of his eyelashes like snow, falling on his darting tongue. He seemed to be transforming into a tree in a winter forest.

  Owen concentrated. He had to work hard to be aroused by those images. Indeed, he was so absorbed that he hardly noticed when someone sat down next to him. He turned once, then back again, to face the screen. The man appeared to be in his thirties, with brown hair, a mustache, small tortoiseshell glasses encircling bright eyes. He was wearing a brown sweater-vest. He was staring at Owen intently. Owen looked back at him, then resolutely fixed his eyes to the screen. On the screen the boy was being chained to a metal fence by one cop while another pulled down his pants, removed and stroked and massaged a big belt. Still Owen felt the stare of the man next to him, hot as breath.

  He closed his eyes. He was angry that this opportunity should present itself now when he wanted more than anything else to be alone in his wretchedness and indulge it. Was there time? Was he too exhausted? Would he be able to muster an erection? Old questions woke in him. He had not done anything like this for months. And he was so tired.

  He sighed loudly. As if absently, he put his hand on the man's thigh. His eyes on the screen, he felt his way up the denim to the warm knot of the crotch and labored there.

  The man's breath was deep and erratic. His hand was on Owen's leg. And now Owen slowly pulled the zipper down, felt the thing spring with a flash of heat, lunge against the thin, warm cotton fabric of the man's underwear. He watched as the boy on the screen, though protesting, was once again taken by the cop, once again loved it. The man was breathing fire on Owen's shoulder. Cautiously Owen bent toward him, and an arm barred him from leaning over the armrest. Owen looked into the man's face for direction. It was a kind face, unblemished, worried. "Please," the man whispered. "I can't do it here. Please. Can't we go somewhere else?"

  Owen's hand lifted spasmodically. He looked at the screen, as if for guidance. On the screen, the cop said, "Yeah, shit, yeah."

  The man wanted to go somewhere else. He sat hunched in his chair, his fly open, an erection tenting his underwear. He looked at Owen. "I have a place nearby; we could go there," he said, and Owen opened his mouth and looked the other way. He imagined saying yes, imagined how they would have to walk out of the theatre, exchange names, perhaps shake hands; how they would have to talk about their jobs and lives on the way to wherever they were going (what could he say?); worst of all, how they would have to admit to each other in the broad light of day that they had come, each alone, to that dark room on Third Avenue, that heart of shame and lonely self-indulgence, and thereby acknowledge each other as human beings and not just shadows that float in a theatre and mimic, moment by moment, the flickering gestures of giants on a screen. Owen knew how to touch; with his hands he could be gentle, fierce, seductive. But in fifteen years of coming to this theatre he had never uttered a word to one of his partners; he hardly knew where to begin.

  He shook his head. The man rustled nervously; Owen wouldn't meet his gaze. "Thanks," he said. "Maybe some other time." In an instant he was gone. Owen thought suddenly of getting up and following him, but he seemed to be frozen to his seat. He fell back, deflating. In a few hours his desire to make love to that man, to hold that man, would become so acute that it would be practically unbearable. He would lie in bed and remember every tiny touch, and finally he would have to get up, turn on the shower, lean back against the wall and feel the warm water moisten his skin. The next day only enough hope would live in him to allow him to feel regret. By evening, it would be dead; starved.

  He pulled his coat tight around his waist and stood up. At home, he knew, there was cake; there was always cake. There were books, too. It was cold outside, so it would be warm inside. Home would sustain him for a single night, and by the time the panic set in the next morning, he'd be on his way to work. Survival was possible.

  He noticed a small flash of white on the seat next to his. It was a piece of paper. He looked at it for a few se
conds before picking it up and unfolding it. On the piece of paper was written, in a small, blue hand, "Alex Melchor." Then two phone numbers, one followed by a "W." the other by an "H." Underneath, underlined twice, "Please give me a call."

  Owen read the note over again. He looked around himself, at the shadows in the theatre. He looked at his hands, at the empty seat, at the screen.

  Then he folded the piece of paper up, stuck it in his pocket, and headed out the exit door.

  Outside, the wind was heavy and snow was falling in the darkness. Owen walked quickly, his hands in his pockets, his toes numb, watching his breath form larger and more frequent clouds. He thought of his book, the cake in the refrigerator, and smiled. That man in the theatre with the brown hair and bright eyes, Alex Melchor, had left his number. He wanted to see Owen again. He wanted Owen. And thinking of the man, Owen walked faster, the beat in his veins quickening. Then he swore he felt his heart burst inside his chest. And it was as if some sweet ambrosial liquid were pouring from that broken vessel, flowing in his veins, filling him and warming him, from the center of his chest to the cold, faraway extremities.

  PHILIP WAS IN love. He lay pinned under Eliot's body, and he couldn't move. His left arm felt like part of Eliot—alien and heavy—but he did not dare reposition it. He must have woken Eliot up ten times during the night with his thrashing (love made him thrash), and he wasn't about to risk doing it again. Instead he lay still, trying to flex his fingers to get his blood running, and watched a sliver of gray cloud pass between the curtain rod and the frame of his one window. Eliot's breath tickled the hairs under his arm. The radiator wheezed, the super's Dobermans barked, rain clicked against the roof. He tried to identify the room's generally unpleasant smells—dirty dishes, sweat, old socks—and wondered what time it was. Probably around noon, he guessed, but could not bend around to look at the clock.

  Then Eliot snorted and turned over, freeing Philip, who slipped out from under him as quickly and quietly as an animal escaping a trap. He rubbed his shoulder, waiting for feeling to return. From behind, Eliot threw an arm over Philip—a pleasant arm, pale and sinewy, downed with dark brown hairs. With his eyes closed, Eliot stretched languorously, then pulled Philip closer to him, wrapping his arms more tightly around Philip's waist, his legs around Philip's hips. He lay still. His hand began moving on Philip, in a circle that widened, then moved gradually downward. Eliot's eyes did not open. He was playing a game, pretending he was still asleep, and as he pulled himself onto his forearms, Philip turned obligingly onto his back. Eliot's body settled on top of Philip's. His head fell behind Philip's shoulder, then lifted again. He opened his eyes, smiled, and kissed him.

  "Good morning," he said.

  Philip's arm throbbed and buzzed with life. "Eliot," he said. "Listen."

  "What?"

  "I have to go to the bathroom."

  Eliot stopped what he was doing. "Oh, that," he said. Laughing, he rolled over to the other side of the mattress.

  "I'm sorry," Philip said. "I'll be right back." He disentangled himself from the sheets and blankets and pulled himself onto his feet. All at once he was dizzy. He trembled as he urinated, and tried to calm his erection, which was sending the urine off at wrong angles, making it hit the rim of the toilet bowl and splash onto the floor. Finished, he flushed, wiped up what he had spilled, and went back out the door. The stench seemed to have intensified during his brief absence. "Christ," he said, "what is that smell?" It was coming from the sink, where three days worth of dishes lay piled, all encrusted with bits of rotten food and crawling with roaches.

  Then he noticed the clock. "Oh God," he said, and put his hand on his forehead to steady himself. "It's four o'clock. Did we sleep all day? I've got to do these dishes." Standing before the sink, he ran water, squirted pink detergent onto a sponge, and started to scrub.

  "Come back to bed," Eliot said.

  "I think I have to do these dishes."

  "Philip, come back to bed."

  Philip turned, surprised to hear his own name, and looked at Eliot. He was sitting up on the mattress, his dark hair rumpled, a few days' worth of beard darkening his cheeks. Even in half-sleep, his eyes amazed Philip, and weakened him.

  "Okay," he said. He stood there, naked, and Eliot stared at him.

  Then—in a voice he had never heard before, a voice that belonged to Greta Garbo—he said to Eliot, "I am yours."

  For three weeks now they had been lovers, and they had not spent one night apart. Eliot hadn't wanted to. He lived a life unconstrained by schedule, futureless, open-ended. At the dentist's office Philip had read in Mademoiselle that it was dangerous for newly formed couples to spend too much time together at the beginning, but when he asked Eliot about it, Eliot seemed unconcerned. "Why should we stay away from each other when we want to be together?" he said. "The only reason to stop, it seems to me, is if we stop enjoying it." Philip agreed. He had absolutely no desire to spend a night away from Eliot; he had slept alone his whole life. Still, he worried that Eliot might grow tired of him if they spent every minute together, might get bored, go to a different party, meet someone else. It seemed he could do that easily. Although Eliot had hundreds of friends, who called and sent him invitations to downtown art openings and parties, he had no Week-at-a-Glance, no crucial dinner dates to change or commit himself to. His days were his own, devoted to a variety of mysterious "freelance" projects. Philip, by contrast, was burdened with commitment, compelled five days a week to be at a desk in a midtown office building. His friends all worked as well. They formed a complicated network of petty betrayals and loyalties in which his participation was often demanded. During working hours they met for lunch at Amy's, and on weekends for long drowsy dinners in Ethiopian restaurants, after which they would divide the check down to the penny. It was not a life he relished, and he believed he would do a lot for Eliot, who had saved him from it; he had done more for boyfriends who deserved less, arranging his life around their more important lives, making his first priority men for whom he was fourth or fifth at best. These other boyfriends had made no pretense of loyalty or love and were always on the lookout for someone richer, or more handsome. Eliot at least seemed to delight in Philip; he like to rumple his hair like a little boy's, and say, "You're really cute, you know that?" But he never seemed to think more than five minutes ahead of himself, and this worried Philip. He insisted that he "lived for the moment," an instinct Philip did not trust. What happened when the moment that was him ended?

  This cold afternoon they drank coffee as the sun set. They were going to spend the night at Eliot's place in the East Village. "It's too cold for the subway," Eliot said, as they put on their coats. "Let's take a cab." A beat of worry. "I'll pay, don't worry," Eliot added. He generally paid. If the pattern of the past three weeks continued, Philip knew, they would spend four nights downtown before shuttling back up for another three. Prepared, he carried with him several changes of clothes, his toothbrush and nasal spray, and the bioflavonoid tablets for his gums. Eliot had nothing; he never brought anything with him when he came up to Philip's. He used Philip's toothbrush; he wore Philip's clothes. Afterwards, Philip sometimes slipped on the shirts Eliot had borrowed and breathed in his smell, faintly redolent of honey.

  They rode down Broadway, blocks lined with Korean fruit-stands and laundromats and newsstands. Men were struggling to cover piles of the Sunday paper with tarpaulins. To Philip's surprise, a few flakes of snow started to fall, then more and more. He remembered coming out of a movie theatre in the East Village when he was a teenager to find that a snowstorm had come and gone while he was inside. The streetlights reflected off the white carpet that seemed so suddenly to have covered the city, creating a light as brilliant as in a skating rink. No cars could pass. Philip had to squint as he walked out into the middle of Third Avenue, where prostitutes in sequinned skirts and fur-trimmed jackets were throwing snowballs at one another. "Come play with us, honey," they shouted to him—a joke, or a sincere invitation, since
they had seen what kind of theatre he had come out of. "No thanks," he said. He looked up. The pale night sky seemed to have risen from this brightness like smoke from a white-hot fire.

  Now, in the cab, he turned, thinking he might share this memory with Eliot, when the driver slammed on his brakes and they lurched forward. "What's wrong?" Eliot asked.

  "Ay dios," the cab driver said quietly.

  Then Philip looked out the window and saw that the intersection was full of white mice. Thousands of them. They swarmed the street in panicked hordes, like tiny indistinguishable sufferers in a fourteenth-century vision of hell. They cascaded over the sidewalk curbs and plunged after each other into gutters. Against the new snow they were nearly invisible, small quakings of motion.

  "My God," Philip said. The driver opened his door and got out of the cab, and Philip and Eliot followed him. None of the cars at the intersection were honking, nor were they making any effort to move. Even the passersby—mostly old women who might have screamed had they seen just one of these creatures dart out from behind a garbage can—hung back while the mice poured out of a small white truck that rested on a corner, its front wheels on the sidewalk, its hood bent around a lamppost. "Poor little things," Philip heard someone say—a voice emerging from the low hum of the crowd which seemed so disembodied that after a moment he wondered if he had imagined it. The mice ran in circles or huddled in clumps as horns began to honk and drivers too far back to see what was going on yelled, "Hey, will you move it?" But no one moved it.