The Bohemian and the Banker

by Bonnie Dee

  Nigel shoved away the gloomy thought and concentrated on Jay’s wriggling in his seat, the lift of his hips, the quiet moans in his throat, all the signs of pleasure that told Nigel he was doing this right. And then, as the Ferris wheel began another descent, Jay groaned more loudly. Nigel could nearly feel the swell in his erection, even through drawers and trousers. He gripped tight and rubbed hard until Jay stopped moving.

  “Ah yes.” Jay exhaled, eyes closing as the panorama of Parisian streets grew larger beneath them.

  Nigel smiled, delighted by the pleasure he was able to give, and simply happy to exist in this singular wonderful moment. He was in what some considered the most beautiful city in the world and had just experienced the innovations of the future at the Exposition displays as well as pure ecstasy at the hands of a handsome man. If he’d learned one thing during his days in Paris it was that anything was possible. The future was a challenge for those who chose to claim it. He’d also learned that he didn’t hate France nearly as much as he’d thought he would.

  By the time the ride had finished, their coats were buttoned to hide the damp stains on their trousers. They were two respectable gentlemen enjoying the Exposition together as darkness fell and the multitude of gaslights and even electric lights lit up the buildings and the promenade.

  They walked past a small closed booth with the outline of a bat across its elaborate faux marble front. Nigel had forgotten Chauve-Souris had a presence here at the Exposition. The sight of the familiar symbol made him pause and recollect his reason for being in Paris.

  “I have to finish my report.” Nigel tucked his cane under his arm and pulled his watch from his pocket, but couldn’t see its face in the darkness. Too late, that was all he knew. “I could put it off for another few hours.” He wouldn’t mind writing into the early morning, or perhaps on the ferry crossing tomorrow. Two night’s lost sleep was worth even a few minutes in Jay’s company.

  “No.” Jay laid both hands on his shoulders. “I complained about your slipping away the other morning, but in truth that is the sort of good-bye I like best. No good-bye at all, you see? You’ll never see me at a train station waving a handkerchief.”

  He leaned forward and kissed Nigel on each cheek, nothing unusual for this emotional Gallic world, except each kiss was soft, lingering too long. Nigel felt the tenderness and perhaps even regret. He cares for me. He’s saying good-bye, but he does care.

  Jay backed away and held out a hand. Nigel reached for it, ready to be grabbed and taken off to another adventure, pulled up into the sky on the roof or the Ferris wheel—what next? Perhaps they had a useable display of Icarus wings here at the fair? A balloon ride?

  But Jay shook his hand as if they were acquaintances meeting on the street for a brief greeting and then a farewell.

  “You’ll find your way back to your hotel?” he asked.

  Stunned, Nigel nodded.

  “Truly?” Jay asked. He smiled a little. “I hate to think of you stumbling through the streets of Paris.”

  Nigel didn’t smile. “I will be fine,” he said. “I understand.”

  Jay gave a nod. He turned and walked away.

  Nigel watched him melt into the milling crowd before turning and walking in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Nine

  Back in London, Nigel’s life swallowed him, and soon it was as if those nights in Paris had never happened. He allowed himself quiet moments alone in his bedroom to relive the hours with Jay—otherwise such a thing proved too distracting and painful. He wrote down every detail, every moment he could recall, and then, with a sigh of regret, he burned the paper.

  Yet in small ways, his behavior and thoughts had changed. He had developed a dramatic streak, for instance. He certainly would never have bothered to put a part of his life on paper, much less burn it.

  Instead of staying home in the evenings, he took to going to plays and concerts and operas. He considered taking in music hall performances, but they seemed too much like a poor imitation of Jay’s music.

  A month passed, and he waited in vain for the restlessness to pass.

  Usually after he finished a business’s books, he never thought of that particular business or its columns of figures again. But one morning he checked with his immediate supervisor to discover if the bank had given the loan to the British company hoping to invest in Chauve-Souris.

  Mr. Turner, a heavy-set man with thinning gray hair, frowned up from his desk. “Oh yes, we gave them the loan. It was hardly in doubt.”

  “Then why did you send me to Paris?”

  “There was some talk of missing funds, but you found them, didn’t you?”

  “It was but a bit of sloppy bookkeeping.”

  “Someone else might have found it, although you are one of the best. We needn’t have sent you, as it turns out. And now you shall tell me how wasteful we are.”

  “No. Not I, sir.”

  Mr. Turner pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. When he gazed at Nigel with those large brown eyes magnified, he appeared to be examining Nigel on a microscopic level. “You have changed since that trip to Paris, Mr. Warren.”

  “Oh? I hope I still do my work in a satisfactory manner.” Nigel knew he sounded stiff as he ever had. If he’d changed, well, he knew why. Though he’d sought out the information about the Paris business, he would much rather not think of his time with Jay while at work. It felt discordant and disloyal—although to whom, he wasn’t sure.

  Mr. Turner sighed. “Yes, yes, of course we’re satisfied. And perhaps you aren’t so different after all.”

  Nigel nodded. He could still be absorbed in the numbers and the lists. But sometimes when he came up for air—pushing the books away to stand and look out a window—he was swamped by a longing so harsh it made breathing difficult.

  “Come, you’re distracted again, Mr. Warren.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  Mr. Turner picked up a pen and placed it in the silver holder presented to him on his twenty-fifth year at the bank. He tapped some papers together. This must be a sign for Nigel to thank him and be on his way.

  “I appreciate your time, sir.”

  “Not at all. I had been planning to summon you. And I must say, your interest in our client reassures me.”

  “Oh?”

  Mr. Turner carefully arranged the papers at the corner of his desk and stared at them rather than Nigel. He and Nigel had that dislike of close scrutiny in common.

  Mr. Turner wore a small smile. “I think of you as conscientious, but you tend to focus on the details. I like this sign that you’re interested in a bigger picture.”

  Funny that Nigel’s query about Chauve-Souris should be interpreted as attentiveness to work, when for a change, it was anything but. He was actually interested in most things connected to Paris these days. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I should tell you that we have our eye on you for advancement to supervisor.”

  Nigel made a small sound of surprise. Advancement? He’d given up such hopes.

  Mr. Turner warned, “No guarantees, of course. It will be up to the directors, since this sort of position is more senior.”

  The directors—Nigel recalled the sneering aristocrats.

  And then he thought of his first days at this bank, at the age of twenty. He’d sat on his high stool and contemplated his career, plotting it as methodically in his mind as any sheet of numbers. He’d laid it all out, the way he’d write a report.

  If he should lose his position, he’d known he and his mother would survive nicely for years, but he’d decided he liked extravagances such as employing two maids and a cook who’d been professionally trained. And, to be truthful, he’d had no notion what else he was suited for. Certainly not the casual life of a gentleman who would visit clubs and perhaps sit on boards. No, he was well suited for work and sums, and he didn�
�t scorn either. That day he’d seen his future laid out and was content.

  As he’d sat on the high stool at age twenty, transcribing numbers, he’d considered his career and decided he’d like a regular desk, an office and people he might order about. Hardly the stuff of dreams, but even as a young man, Nigel had been practical and he knew his secret dreams could not become real, so he would spend as little time indulging in them as possible.

  Now he had a chance at that desk and that office, and his heart lifted more than he’d expected. He would make a good manager. Better than Mr. Turner.

  “I should like that very much,” he admitted to Mr. Turner. “Thank you for recommending me for the position.”

  As for his secret dreams… They’d come real for almost two full days and had been more vivid than anything he could have imagined. If they would stop interfering with his daily life, he could be more content than he’d felt since his mother’s death.

  He went home that evening and had no one to tell about his possible advancement in the company. His mother had never indulged in high spirits. She would have been solemn and warned him not to count his chickens, but she would also have smiled at him and ordered a special dinner.

  After he ate his dinner of chops and sage stuffing, he sat at his desk and wrote a letter to Jay. He meant it to be the sort of cordial note one sent to acquaintances, telling him of the possibility of advancement in the bank, but it turned into something more. He found himself writing about how much he missed Jay and how he wished he could show him the park in the middle of London near his own house, a hidden square of green near the mews. Nigel reread it and recognized it as a love letter—though he’d never seen one before.

  He tore it up and, for good measure, burned it the way he’d burned his written memory of their time together.

  The best answer was to let go entirely and not even allow himself the quiet moments at home. Perhaps he should go out again. A comic opera might eliminate his present mood, but he’d probably missed a good portion of the show. And one didn’t usually attend alone.

  Nevertheless, he got up from the desk and went to find his hat and coat. He’d arrive late to a performance. The wide world of London would be the only cure he could think of to rid himself of restlessness. And he’d have the chance to watch a man sing…

  He grunted annoyance at himself and slammed out of his house.

  Jay brushed off Merde’s demand that they go out to La Rouge Poulet.

  “Coquelicot will be distraught if you don’t go see her latest performance,” Merde scolded.

  “I spend too many nights of my life in those places. And, really, all that smoking and drinking and bad hours in stuffy crowded interiors will make a man ill.”

  “Then perhaps the races tomorrow? Those are held in fresh air. I have money to waste, and I’ll let you place bets.”

  “You’re determined to go through all of your money as fast as possible.”

  “Perhaps, yes. Having money is almost as much of a nuisance as having none at all. But I offer to entertain you, my friend. Your ill temper is a fine way to reward my generosity.”

  Jay heaved a sigh. “Yes, you are generous, and a good friend. I shouldn’t be so grumpy with you.”

  “What you need is to find a sweet young man with strong limbs. Someone who will gaze at you adoringly, like your English chap.”

  “I think such worshipping would grow tedious fast.” That was what he’d been telling himself ever since he’d said farewell to Nigel. “Infatuation is pleasant for a few days, but it would be exhausting for more than that.”

  He hoped Merde wouldn’t notice that he didn’t mention who was infatuated.

  The symptoms were familiar. Jay had lived through this before: singing to a crowd but imagining one particular face gazing back, awaking in the night and feeling bone-deep longing—that only one person might answer.

  Jay smiled to himself. He’d managed to recover from that first serious obsession without permanent damage to his soul. He had left the man behind in England, part of the reason he’d been so glad to flee his native land.

  Then, one night a year later, the well-bred gentleman he’d loved had appeared in his life again, smoking a cigar and clapping for Jay in a Paris cabaret. The sight of Grenton in spotless dinner clothes—and that smile that always bordered on a smirk—brought Jay a mere echo of the fierce love and pain. Mostly he’d felt pity for the foolish man who cared more for his wardrobe than affection and who disdained friendship as weakness. Poor loveless idiot.

  Grenton waited for him and made it clear that he wanted Jay for the night, but for once Jay had no interest in that sweet-scented, well-maintained body. He had no desire to revisit even the exciting parts of their past.

  He told himself he didn’t want to be a feature, a landmark, on any wealthy man’s tour of Paris. That last apparently changed when he’d come across Nigel.

  Merde slammed out of the flat, singing a music hall song about his lady’s toes. Jay leaned back in his chair and realized he had been thinking about Nigel. Again.

  Would Nigel, like Grenton, reappear one evening and beg for a repeat performance? Jay had said no to Grenton, but he wasn’t sure he’d say no to Nigel.

  He’d wanted something more from Grenton when they lived in London. These days, Jay didn’t expect or want anything more than some recreational pleasure.

  Rather than lie down on his sofa, he wandered into Merde’s dirty, paint-streaked room and stretched out on the mattress. Jay felt a mix of amusement and alarm at his desire to be alone and sulk—so entirely unlike himself.

  “Nigel, you rotter, what have you done to me?”

  Flat on his back, he rummaged through his pockets, feeling around for the small vial he’d bought that day. He didn’t find the bottle of coca elixir but he did find the day’s post he’d jammed into this pockets. A letter for Lagniappe and four for Merde—and one for Jay.

  It was another letter from his mother’s brother, a man he barely knew, asking for funds to buy a…what? Jay squinted at the cheap stationary. The handwriting was terrible and had gotten worse. From what he could figure out, his uncle seemed to want money to open a bookstore.

  Jay gave up trying to decipher that last part. He only knew he had to write back and say no again. His uncle had asked for money before, and Jay had answered “no, sorry”. The simple reason he would answer now was because he knew his uncle didn’t hold a grudge. After Jay’s last refusal, he’d gotten a civil reply along the lines of “you can’t blame a chap for trying”.

  After leaving the family’s small town and mill work, his uncle had taken a job in a pub in London, but that had apparently ended, leaving him with little to get by on. He’d written: Even should you not invest, I would be glad to see you, the last remaining bit of my dear sister. Should you return to London, I hope you’d stay here, though this is a small flat.

  Clearly his uncle didn’t actually want him to stay in the flat, but wouldn’t mind seeing Jay. Was that reason enough to pack up his battered leather satchel and make a visit? Jay forgot about the elixir and reread the letter.

  London. He hadn’t returned for four years now. It would be odd to walk streets filled with people speaking English. He hated to think about returning to the dreary old neighborhood and perhaps seeing people he’d once considered friends. Forward momentum was his notion of how to live. Sentimental looking back might come later in life, but he doubted he’d sit and sort through a cigar box of mementos even after he grew old.

  He let the letter drop to his chest. Now if the invitation had come from Nigel…

  “Stop it.” His voice was too loud in the empty room. He pushed himself off the bed. This was ridiculous. He needed a change of scenery. Perhaps he might go to the country. Merde waxed on about the beauties of the French countryside where the artist sometimes went to paint. That might be the answer.

 
; He went to fetch his hat and coat and found his little vial of elixir, which he’d stuffed into his jacket without slowing down to take any. He was energized enough without the tonic, and now that he’d made up his mind, he wanted to get started on his plans.

  Though it was his night off from the cabaret, he walked there, hunched in his coat against a fall drizzle. He made his way to the manager’s office and knocked, then let himself in.

  “Ah, my sweet Jean Michel!” The club owner, M. Dulac, sat working on the perpetual piles of paper in front of him. He had thin, suspiciously chestnut-colored hair and delicate mustaches with slightly curled waxed tips. Jay sometimes got the impression M. Dulac carefully donned the role of a finicky dandy. It didn’t seem to come to him easily. Jay’s theory was the owner/impresario thought something effeminate would fit his cabaret—and he wanted to hide his shrewd business nature so his employees and competitors would underestimate him.

  “I need to take some time away from work.” Jay took off his hat and gave it a shake.

  “Stop dripping water on my lovely things.” M. Dulac dropped the papers he held. “As for you taking time away? Non, non, non.” He shook a finger with each no as if he were scolding a naughty child.

  “I must,” Jay replied. And then, rather surprised by how grim he sounded, he went on. “I don’t want to quit, but I shall. I’ll go whether or not I have leave. I’ll run away and never come back.”

  He considered himself a steady sort of person, and if anyone else had made this dramatic ultimatum, he would have rolled his eyes. But he knew what it took to get Dulac’s attention. Now he sat down heavily on the velvet sofa near Dulac’s antique Louis XV white-and-gold desk. He balanced his hat on his knees and waited.