He held out the book, and I saw the lines "Lay your sleeping head, my love/Human on my faithless arm."
I must have blushed, because he said, "What?" and pulled back the book and read the page. And half snorted a laugh. "That one's pretty good. But I like this one better." He showed me "Fish in the unruffled lakes." "You?"
"'Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle...'" I quoted the title from memory.
"'Upon what man it fall/In spring,'" he continued. "Yeah, I like that one too. You don't think it's strange?
"I always thought that particular poem very strange. For example, here," nervously pointing, and now so close I felt sea-deep within his ambience, his smell like toasted wheat bread that's not yet cooled, "in the second stanza, where he writes about dreaming of going home and kissing his wife under a sheet, then instead he wakes and sees 'Bird-flock nameless to him; through doorway voices/Of new men making another love'..."
"Oh!" I suddenly said aloud. I'd for the first time realized what Auden must have meant with those phrases. "Oh, he must mean..." I stopped myself and began to blush. Gays, Auden must have meant, I thought but didn't say. "New men making another love." Opposed to a wife. What else could it mean?
"Mean what?" the sailor asked and read aloud. "'...new men making another love.'"
He looked up, those remarkable huge, pale, silver-gray eyes so extravagantly set in dark, long, curled lashes, and seeing me red-faced, he too must have suddenly realized the words' import, since he too began to color.
Which meant that against all expectations, all possibilities, all percentages, all fears of it not being so, the sailor must be gay too!
I couldn't believe it. I almost levitated off the imported Albanian rose-red marble floor.
In that moment I felt us connect. It was as if a double-sided grappling hook had suddenly been flung and caught under each of our sternums, grasping tight into bone, biting deep into vital organs.
I calmed down a bit. The rest of the conversation was carried on in bits and pieces, as I continued to more slowly orbit him, still straightening out displays and "point of purchase" areas.
He remained where he was, slowly revolving to face me, a rotating star to my ellipsis of erratic wandering. He closed the book and held it close to his side as he answered my questions, telling me he was on a sort of leave, staying in the Presidio while he visited San Francisco. He'd spent most of the past year in the South China Sea and around the Mekong Delta as a gunner's mate on board a destroyer, "assisting friendly fire further inland," he said enigmatically. He'd also seen some "land-based action," he said. (I trembled to think he might have been killed.) He'd had two "tours" of active duty, he said, but had only another few weeks left, and he wasn't sure whether he'd "re-up" or not. He'd sort of liked being in the Navy, as it gave him plenty of time to be alone and to think and to read and write poetry. He wrote poetry, he repeated twice, though he'd never revealed that to anyone else on board ship. He'd asked to come to the Bay Area to be demobilized, because he'd never been here before and thought maybe he might want to live here once he got out of the Navy—that is if he didn't re-up. He originally came from the East, he said. His folks lived in Westchester County, though he didn't say where exactly. He was an only child. His name was Matthew Loguidice, which he pronounced "Load-your-dice," which he said was a Sicilian name. He was half-Italian, half-Finnish.
Meanwhile I told him a few things about myself, including that I read—but didn't write—poetry and had studied it in college and wouldlike to see his poems (he demurred) and that I got off work in about an hour and would be pleased to talk to him more if he'd join me for dinner; he could stay here or return, I said, nervously doing all kinds of semi-janitorial things within a six-foot radius of his gravitational pull, unwilling to move any farther away lest he vanish into thin air, unwilling to leave the spot until he'd agreed to everything I'd suggested, well, everything I'd suggested aloud at least. Then I suggested one more thing: he could take the poetry book and wait upstairs in the art gallery, where there were chairs, till I got off work—in a half hour.
Matthew said that sounded like a good idea, as he'd been on his feet all day and was a little worn out from sight-seeing in the city, which, required a good deal of shoe leather. He thanked me, and our eyes connected very hard and my chest tightened suddenly. I had to force myself to look away.
As he went up one way, my boss, Faunce, and Alistair came down another.
"Don't you look like you were struck by a semi," Alistair commented.
"Do I? We have a dinner date. After my meeting with Pierluigi."
Alistair followed my eyes, following Matthew going upstairs.
"With Apollo himself? How could you?"
"But Alistair! You insisted."
"I never dreamed you'd actually do it."
"Well, I did."
"Or that he'd agree." Alistair bit his lip, looking up at the record department, where Matthew had stopped. "For a supposedly shy little thing, you certainly... I can't believe your nerve! How could you bring yourself to speak to him?"
"Sheer fucking terror!" And explained, "Terror he'd get away. Terror I'd never see him again."
"It seems to have paid off," Alistair admitted sourly. "Dinner?"
"Dinner," I replied.
"Who's paying?"
"We didn't discuss that. I assume it's Dutch treat."
"Don't assume too much with types like that." Alistair tapped the sentence out on my jacket lapel. "They're used to being treated."
"You'd know from your tons of experience with Trade," I sneered.
Alistair was about to say something else, then stopped himself just in time to half smile at our boss, who'd reached the main floor of the shop and was busily brushing off Faunce about something.
Pierluigi gazed around the store, giving it the once-over, then addressed me. "Mees-ter Sannns-arcc! We have a meeting."
"I'm ready when you are,"
"My office!" he decreed and headed for the elevator. Alistair and Faunce said good-bye and left the store the other way, doubtless headed out to dinner with Mrs. Faunce, to hatch who knew what new conspiracies.
As Pierluigi and I ascended past the mezzanine art gallery, I briefly saw, through the little octagonal window, Matthew's head—as though in a cinquecento tondo—turned in profile as he stared at an Erté print.
I thought, God, if he's still here when I return, I'll never say a bad word again in my life. Never! I promise!
Pierluigi told me his expansion plans as though they were already solidified—which I suspected was pretty much the case.
I, however, still saw this talk as a chance to fry my own fish: especially one particular big-mouthed Vincent Faunce. I knew I had to tread gingerly. Though it was a part of the store and thus under my titular control, the art gallery was run by Faunce and Pierluigi as a separate demesne, and thus for all practical purposes out of my control.
"In these new shops, what are you going to use to fill up the new art galleries?" I asked, and rapidly answered myself. "Don't tell me. Faunce will supply all the art?"
"Not all," Pierluigi temporized.
"But most of it?"
"This you don't approve of?" He asked the obvious.
"I wouldn't mind. Except he does have a lot of crap."
The word seemed to offend Pierluigi. "Mees-trrrr Sans-arc!"
"Well, a lot of it definitely is not authenticated. And some of the things I've seen framed and hung in his apartment look as though he and his wife spent a morning and simply ripped them out of Skira books and hand-penciled the numbers."
He seemed genuinely intrigued. "You don't think?" "I wouldn't put it past him. Or her!"
Pierluigi tsked. "Such a cynical view from one so young."
"Maybe," I admitted. I wasn't at all cynical; in fact I was prepared to be a complete naif, a ninny if needed, about my Adonis downstairs, who I hoped was still waiting for me. I wished the Goose would come to the point.
"Your Alistair,
for example, seems to think we could get a good price if we purchased more from the Faunce."
The use of "for example" was one of Pierluigi's affectations. He seemed to use it whether it made sense or not.
The possessive my boss had used, on the other hand, was one of the few signs that Pierluigi was at all aware Alistair and I had known each other before the job. I wondered exactly how much he did know. I'd certainly not said anything, and I doubted that Alistair had allowed any glory to be reflected away from himself. There were thirty people on staff: something could have gotten out.
"If you want to attract more Mill Valley trade," I said, "you should upscale the art. Get more expensive items. Send Alistair to private auctions."
"No, no, no, no, no," Pierluigi quickly said.
"Well, you asked."
"Why do you keep looking at your clock?"
My watch, he meant. "I'm meeting someone for dinner," I admitted.
"Go then!" He gestured imperiously with his hand.
I hated being dismissed like that. But I sure wanted out.
"I'll let you know before I decide." Pierluigi stood up to pull down his roller map of central coastal California.
I doubted that. As with most decisions, I'd hear about it after it had been implemented. As I left, he was searching for Palo Alto on the map. I rushed to the elevator and down to the art gallery, dreading that...
But Matthew was there.
We didn't get to dinner. Not that night. We left the shop and headed the few blocks toward Chinatown, considering various restaurants but evidently not considering seriously enough. Matthew was carrying a black grip with him and said it contained a change of clothing. I asked if he'd be more comfortable out of his Navy whites, and admitted I wouldn't mind changing out of my work clothes and into jeans and a flannel shirt. I thought we'd find some place to eat we both liked in my area, along Ashbury or Masonic streets. He agreed, and I began calculating how long it would take to get home with a change of busses, and how it would feel sitting next to Matthew all that way and not knowing if... At Montgomery and Market, I spotted an empty cab in front of a taxi company office. On impulse I got in.
Matthew joined me without a word. A fog had begun to roll in off the bay, straight up Market Street. Even with headlights and streetlights on, it provided sudden darkness. A touch of chilliness, and yes, privacy too.
I was surprised to feel Matthew's hand reach over and touch my knee.
"You're shivering," he said.
I couldn't deny it. "I'll never get used to these sudden changes of weather," I said. His hand hadn't lifted off my knee. I covered it with my own. "Last week, I went to sleep with the window open and a light sheet on, and I woke up freezing." His hand slid under mine off my knee and ranged along my thigh. "Two quilts later I finally managed to warm up," I added, moving my hand onto his knee and from there onto his thigh.
Our hands slid and caressed and ultimately managed to get to almost every inch of the lower parts of each other's body during the cab trip to Fell Street. While I paid the fare and before we could get out, we had to arrange our erections in our trousers.
That didn't last long; once in the building's foyer, we found ourselves smashed against the wall, necking and groping each other. And inside the door, once I remembered to unlock it. And up the two flights of stairs. And inside my apartment door, even with the two locks to undo. And inside the flat, along walls and bookcases. And despite sudden obstacles like closet handles, until we finally made it to my bedroom, where we tore off each other's jacket and shirt and ripped off each other's belt and tore at each other's pants as though, like Nessus's cloak in the story of Hercules, they were soaked in flaming poison. Thus, mostly undressed, we fell upon each other like leopards exposed to fresh meat.
Something like two hours later, I called for a cigarette break. We lay amid the ruins of my bedclothes and our own clothing. Certain areas of my body ached from being grasped so hard, held so tightly, while others continued to sting, having been so well beard-burned. We lay athwart each other, his larger limbs more than half covering mine.
"That's better!" I made smoke rings Matt poked a finger through.
"Want some grass?" I offered. "You have to roll it."
"Think we need it?" We both giggled. Clearly we didn't.
Ten minutes later, we broke off that kiss and I said, "How hungry are you, really?"
"I don't know. How long do restaurants stay open?"
"Another hour or so."
Matt rolled onto me. "We'll never make it," he groaned.
"There's one right downstairs," I protested. "Five minutes from here to there if we got dressed now." Instead I let him take me away with him. When I came up for air, I said, "You're right. We'd never make it."
At our next break, I said, "There's food here. In the fridge."
"Sounds good," Matt admitted. Then we started in again, and he said, "We'll never make that either."
Sometime later I actually managed to escape Matt's unstoppable hands and probing tongue long enough to get up and put together melted cheese sandwiches with tomato slices. We sipped a single bottle of root beer through two straws.
"Yourrr foudssll nnyrrspnmnnts," I said, while being rolled over and having a pillow stuffed in my mouth.
"What?" Matt asked.
"Yourrr foudssll nnyrrspnmnnts."
"What?" he asked again, this time removing the pillow.
"Your foot's still in your pants!" I said. Pointing to where his sailor pants hung off one shoeless foot. "Might as well take it off."
"It's okay. " Matt shrugged off the problem.
"Take it off. Especially if, as I hope, you're going to spend the night."
"I'll take it off later on," he said.
I heard something unexpectedly hard in his tone of voice. Maybe he didn't like commands. Maybe he didn't like contradictions.
"I give up!" Hands up in the air, I simpered. "Make love not war."
He laughed and grabbed me. "You dare to say that?" he demanded. "To me? A man who's seen action?"
I wrestled back. "You've probably seen more action in the last few hours than you did in the past two years."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah!"
An hour later, I said, "Dear Abby. I've met the most wonderful man. Except for one peculiar fetish he has. He insists upon keeping one pants leg on while we're in bed. Do you think it's a sign of noncommitment? In case he wants to make a quick getaway? What do you suggest? Signed, Half-panting."
Matt reached up and moved the lamp on the table. He threw my dress shirt over it so all was pale blue. Then he took the other pants leg off.
"Satisfied?"
"Am I ever?"
"I meant about my pants."
"Want me to get up and hang them so they won't wrinkle?"
Together we answered, "No! Never make it!"
We lay next to each other listening to the radio. It was playing low, but it was audible now that we weren't quite so distracted.
"That's pretty," Matt said.
"Saint-Saens's Third Symphony. Second movement. Here comes the organ. It's sometimes called—"
"Don't tell me." Matt fluffed up his poor overused dick. "The Organ Symphony!"
After laughing, we listened awhile.
"I wish I knew music like that," Matt said.
"You hear enough of it, eventually you get to know it."
"The last time I spent, any time in the missile room," Matt said, "this wild guy Jerry who we used to call Jerry the Axe was there playing this reel-to-reel tape he'd gotten from some guy or other in Bangkok. It was beautiful. Just beautiful. From Strauss. Richard Strauss," Matt explained, pronouncing the first name the American way. "And it was from some opera. I don't remember exactly. But Jerry explained the story. This woman's left stranded on this island and left to die. Only she's not alone. She's with this theater company. Strange, huh? I never completely got it. Only she sings about how much she wants to die...."
Matt's vo
ice fluttered slightly. "You know, because this man she loved has left her there and all."
"Ariadne auf Naxos," I said, not believing what he'd been describing.
"Yeah! That sounds right."
I went further. "'Es gibt ein Reich!' is the name of that aria."
"Do you have it?"
I got up and found the album and looked for the libretto, and there it was, close to the beginning of the third disc, "Es gibt ein Reich, wo alles rein ist," Schwarzkopf's most effusive outpouring, her love-death paean. I began to play it and came back into the bedroom, where Matt sat on the edge of the bed, listening.
"Come," I said, pulling him and the quilts along with him, until we were out in the living room, plumped down in front of the couch.
"Play it again," he said, when the aria was over and Harlequin, Scaramuccio, and the other commedia dell'arte figures came out to sing. I put the libretto in his hand and showed Matt where we were in the translation, while the Vienna Philharmonic's strings and winds caressingly rose to the same fever pitch as Schwarzkopf, and he looked at me. "Don't you think it's beautiful?"
What could I say? As beautiful as he was.
"You were playing this on the ship?" I had trouble believing it. "While you were firing missiles?"
"Yeah, we were all three-quarters tanked on bennies, and we'd been eating opium for about a week. We were stuck in this sort of big, round turret, only it was completely electronic, deep inside the front deck of the ship. We'd been there an hour already, busily popping away, when Jerry the Axe pulled out this tape and switched it with our usual soul and blues tape. At first everyone complained. It was weird music. Long-hair. Beyond long-hair. He insisted on playing it. And this guy Jerry the Axe was like a lunatic, whenever he wanted something bad, you know. So we gave in. Then as we kept listening and following the blips on our screens telling us where to aim our shots deep upriver, in support of some platoon or other, we came to like it a lot. A lot. Jerry'd gotten the whole set of three reels. And we played 'em all. But mostly this middle one, and whenever we'd reach this part, we'd sniff Amyies and go nuts, mo-rassing them VC motha-fuckers!"
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