—Because I’m enjoying the tale.
—I don’t see how you could be. The Bach partita helps. Well, country people, a blind folksinger. I’d never met a blind person, but I understood, before we left, how he lived in a world of familiar surfaces and spaces, and how his ears served as his eyes. He sang, accompanying himself on just such a harmonium as you and Mariana have, which you’ve taught Franklin and Pascal to sing so prettily to. I remember some lines of a spooky ballad, sung in a high, keen, perhaps falsetto voice.
—Countertenor, Hugo said.
—Yes, countertenor. The lines were:
Long is one night,
But longer are two,
O how can I wait for three?
When, later in life, I saw a photograph of Walt Whitman, I realized that they could have been taken for twins, right down to the shape of beard and hair. The faces, especially the eyes, were the same, strange as it is that blind and seeing eyes should resemble each other. He made his sister describe me to him, and I must have blushed wildly to hear myself itemized and assessed. Red-brown hair, sweet eyes, freckles, the handsome blue sweater, which the folksinger asked to feel, the new corduroy trousers, whose sound he’d wondered about. He ran his fingers over my face, and held my hands in his for an uncomfortably long time.
The phone rang. Hugo said into it:
—Lovely. Holger’s here. He’s telling me about his childhood. Oh yes. We’ll have a fire, against the damp.
And to Holger:
—Mariana. She’ll be along in a bit. Says hello.
—Well, then, to get to the substance of all this. There came a moment when Uncle and the sister were searching out old hymnals and some kind of folklore journal, these being in long chests painted over with trolls and floral swirls, and the folksinger enticed me over and whispered that he would like me to walk him to the outhouse. It didn’t occur to me until later that he would have known the way perfectly, but I felt a measure of virtue in leading the blind to a call of nature. He kept his hand on my shoulder all the way. I won’t try to describe the outhouse, a new experience for me. Once inside, he asked if anybody were near, and when I said no, he said that I should make water first, his words, make water. I did, feeling very sure of myself as a child of the city among such countrified and primitive people. My new togs enforced my sense of superiority, as the speech of these farm people was as antique as their strange clothes from the century before. The blind folksinger’s trousers came up to his chest, and his shirt had pleats and a frill of lace at the collar, and his coat had the biggest buttons I’d ever seen. And then, when I was about to tuck in and zip up, the old codger fumbled for my penis, and got it. I’d never felt a hand other than my own on that tender organ, and I was mystified, scared, and obliging all at once. I won’t try to analyze my emotions, except to say that my fear gave way to pleasure, and to the sweetness of stolen pleasure, at that. I want to be very truthful, Hugo, because I think this is a key to something that will probably be obvious to you, but which as yet isn’t to me.
—We’ll see, Hugo said. This gets better and better.
—He was an astute old cooter, and said we mustn’t dally in the outhouse, even though my little man, as he called it, was springy stiff and feeling wonderfully sexy. His age, by the way, was probably late thirties or early forties, that is, an old man to my few years. So I zipped up, with my erection making a bump in my new corduroys, and as we walked back he sang some lilting ballad with a jolly refrain. He held me hard by the shoulder. When we got back to the house, he went no farther than the door, through which he said in a loud voice that the young gentleman wanted to see the black-faced sheep in the upper pasture. Where we walked, and when he asked if we were out of sight of the house, or of anybody, he mastered, by touch, the working of my zipper, while I stood in a kind of trance. He kept asking, in the kindest of voices, if I liked what he was doing, and I answered, quite truthfully, yes. He wanted to know if I did what he was doing by myself, and I remember how wonderfully wicked I felt when I replied that I did. But when he wanted to know if I had friends who did what he was doing, I said no, and he said that I must get new friends who would. He made me promise that, that very night, when I was home, I would play with myself, as he called it. We walked farther into the pastures, with sheep and cows staring at us. On top of a knoll I realized that we were walking in a great circle around the farm. And I must tell that not long after he’d jacked me off, he asked if I would like it again, and I eagerly unzipped for a replay. This time we did it together, his hand over mine, and he kissed me on my head as I reported on my rising pleasure.
—Good God, Holger! Hugo said. You were initiated into the boyish mysteries by a wizard of the huldufolk. Your cock’s probably magic. I don’t dare tell Mariana.
—You’re the only person I’ve ever told this, you understand. At the time, it was not something I could tell anybody. It was, indeed, a rite of passage. That afternoon ended with the folksinger saying that I was not a boy but an angel, with everyone pleased that I had brought joy to the house for a few hours, and there was a long ballad before we left, which interested my uncle, as he’d never heard it, and asked to return to take it, and others, down. So there you have it, friend Hugo: a kind of primal event, as clear as I can tell it.
—Did you return?
—Yes, several times, and with similar ruses for being out of sight long enough for our stolen pleasure. And I was faithful to his injunction. That was a lovely secret that I hoarded: an adult who wanted me to feel sexual pleasure.
—He didn’t take you in his mouth?
—Well, yes, he did. I was trying to spare you that.
—I can’t think why. And the real question is why you wanted me to know this rustic tale from wildest Iceland.
—Isn’t it the Freudian es of the formula? Where it was, there must I come to be.
—I couldn’t possibly say. Holger, old boy, I know exactly nothing of your emotional life.
—There isn’t any. I was engaged for a while when I was at the university, but broke it off when in a dismal revelation all I could see was a prospect of gin, bridge, and television. Moreover, she was Catholic, with transparent designs for my conversion. And smoked.
—You should be cheerful the rest of your life for so narrow an escape. No wonder you love to hie off on weekends to the darkest forests. As for your psychological backtracking, I see more in the earlier memory. It’s a painting by Mary Cassatt. Only thing in my past I can put beside it is the day I showed the postman my dick. Everybody in Kindergarten had liked seeing it, and I was sure he would, too.
BYGGVIR THE BARLEY
The light that had been so radiantly pellucid all afternoon took on bronze tones in the pinewood. On the slow rise of a slope soft with a flooring of pine needles Holger, Pascal, and Jos laid out provender.
—A good ten kilometers, Jos said.
—I’ve never walked so far, Pascal said. Not all at a go, anyway.
A long walk is one of my ways of keeping body and soul on speaking terms, Holger said.
—Neatest of ideas, Jos said, to take the bus to Tidselby and walk back to Grundtvig. You didn’t think I’d come along, did you, Holger? Couldn’t say no to Pascal, though I did come and ask if you really wanted me. I mean, it’s your walk, with Pascal. Deviled eggs! Chocolate squares!
—Catered, Holger said. Fru Vinterberg, for a modest fee, composed this feed: sandwiches, buttermilk, coffee, deviled eggs, cheese, no end to it. Paper napkins, even. And gave her motherly blessing to a picnic in the country.
—Didn’t comment, did she, Jos asked with his mouth full of sandwich, on how you spoil Pascal rotten?
—Jos, Holger said to Pascal, pointedly, is a horrible example of the kind of person who knows no ground between a very correct formal politeness and unbuttoned familiarity. The old Jos used to be a model Danish schoolboy to his housemaster, and the new Jos treats him as the sailor next bunk over in the forecastle of a herring trawler.
—So? J
os asked. We’ve sat up all night talking about a hundred things, and I’ve slept off a carnal binge in your bed, and you like to see me being drawn and painted by crazy Hugo.
—It’s a good picture, Pascal said. Are those pickles in that paper boat? He’s going to paint me, too, skinny as I am, and Franklin, but maybe with clothes, or some clothes on. He’s done Franklin nude several times.
—Is he a good painter, Holger? Jos asked. I think he is.
—He says, Pascal answered, that painting is his way of showing others what he sees. If he were a poet or a writer, he could say what he sees. Franklin and I asked why he didn’t just photograph things, and he said he might, at that. But wouldn’t quit painting. There are lots of sketchbooks all of Mariana.
—It is my opinion, probably worthless, Jos said, that everything Hugo does is sex, one way or another.
—Talk about seeing yourself in others, Holger said.
Pascal grinned around a deviled egg.
—If I weren’t me, I’d like to be Hugo, Jos said. I don’t know about looking after all those scouts, or teaching Sunday School, but I’d like to do the brainy things he does with the big dictionaries and books, and paint, and bounce Mariana four or five times a day, and maybe even love on Franklin. Does he do that, Pascal, love on Franklin?
—Do you think I know, Jos? Pascal asked, putting a foot against his knee and pushing.
—Boys, Holger said.
—Probably does, Jos said. Is there any more buttermilk?
—Finish mine, I think these soft pine needles, so lovely warm and crunchy, want me to stretch out on them and have a lazy rest, good for the digestion.
—Holger’s ideas are unfailingly top-notch, Jos said. First, a wild bus to Tidselby, with its sights, cabbage patches on the high street, and a row of piglets having lunch on fru Pig. Secondly, a nifty hike, very comradely, and with news of the flora and fauna along the way. If Pascal is as educated at twelve as Holger is at twenty-whatever, what in the name of sweet Jesus will Pascal sound like when he’s Holger’s decrepit age? Thirdly, a picnic in the woods. And now pallet drill on sunny pine needles. May I be totally comfortable, Holger?
—What now, scamp?
—Discard my pants? Which are Asgar’s anyway, and are biting my hipbones. Mine, with the slit pockets, were too nasty for an outing among moral Danes. Shirt off will feel good, too.
—Dapper undergear, Holger said.
Jos, brown and smiling in a jockstrap with a finely meshed net pouch, tapped his broad and thick pectorals with admiring fingers, the knobby furrows of his ribs, the grooved plane of his long abdomen.
—You’re beautiful, Jos, Pascal said. An ancient Greek.
—Work hard enough at it, Jos said. High-tech tough, the supporter. The fit is perfect, as the waist and cinches latch together with Velcro facings, the cup too. See?
—So you assemble it on your person?
—And rip it off, Jos said. Infant friend Pascal, if you’ll lie on that side of sleepy Holger, at right angles, like, I’ll lie on this side, using him for a companionable pillow, all of us wickedly close.
—Feels naughty, Pascal said.
—Friendly, Jos said.
—Slit pockets, Pascal said.
—I knew that hadn’t slipped past Pascal, Holger said.
—For making my dick happy in class. Ankle on knee, book propped just so, and one can frig away fifty minutes which otherwise would be the dullest in northwest Europe. Tom and I sit beside each other in five classes, and inspire and encourage each other. Should Pascal hear this, Holger?
—Nerd! Pascal said.
—Should I hear it? Holger asked, running fingers into Jos’s hair, and into Pascal’s.
—Holger can hear it, Jos said, if he won’t snitch to housemaster Sigurjonsson.
—Which of those two is being lain on by two Grundtviggers in the sun, deliciously warm?
—Holger, Pascal said. Housemaster Sigurjonsson won’t exist again until we’re back. Masturbation was invented by the god Hermes.
—Jesus, Jos said.
—Hugo told me that, Pascal said. Me and Franklin.
—He’s the one who delivers telegrams from Olympus, isn’t he? Jos asked. Wears a derby with wings, and has cute little wings on his ankles, and clears his way with two snakes fucking on a stick? Otherwise dressed for a bath?
—That’s him, Pascal said.
—Is it still Holger, Jos asked, who’s messing with my hair?
—Still Holger, Holger said.
—Thing is, Jos went on, is not to mind if you come, and to brazen out looking as if you’ve broken an egg in your pants. Tom, the god Hermes of NFS Grundtvig, worked out the technique. No underwear, old pants with the pockets scissored out, and the degree of covert operation required. In McTaggart’s world’s dullest class, you can unzip and jack away in the open, behind the big English anthology. Latin and Ethics, inside, and stay on one’s guard. Geometry’s a ticklish business also, with caution and vigilance repaid, especially as Walliser is some species of religious fanatic. But Art Appreciation is a snap, what with the room darkened for slides.
—How, Pascal asked, can you pay attention?
—What, Cricket, do you think about when you whack off?
—Nothing, Pascal said.
—Holger still with us? Jos asked, rolling his head under Holger’s fingers.
—Still here, but barely.
—Sigurjonsson not likely to come back suddenly? Paying attention’s no problem. I pay better attention in Art Appreciation and Geometry for having my dick feel like the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth. In Ethics and English I’m making up for the scarcity of spirit in Bakke and McTaggart. Tom, what a champion, can come while sight-reading Latin.
—The tenacious diligence of it all is what gets through to me, Holger said. The biology is plain enough.
Pascal reached back and laced fingers with Holger.
—For all our whiffling our peters as a pair, Jos said, like before Latin when we’re good at happening on each other in my room or his, to work tone into our members, you know, and breeze, he’s never made a pass at me, loyal to gawky Lemuel all the way. Who, Lemuel I mean, is of a reticence, circumspect, except, natch, with Tom. Lacks imagination, Lemuel.
—Are you being depraved by all this, Pascal? Holger said. I am.
—If I am, is it OK?
—Why not? Jos said, rolling over and propping his chin in Pascal’s forehead. Pascal has lots of rascal in him.
—Franklin, my buddy, Pascal said, found the rascal, and likes him. He’s a nice rascal. I can talk Jos Sommerfeld, too.
—And, Holger said, Pascal’s finding the brainy boy in Franklin.
Jos rolled back over, resting his head on Holger’s abdomen.
—Not being too familiar, am I? he asked with an indicative bobble.
—You’re an affectionate person, Jos, Holger said.
—Shameless, Jos said.
—But with style, Holger said. Much would have to be forgiven you, except for style, shouldn’t we say in all candor?
—Housemaster Sigurjonsson has returned, Pascal said.
—Mna, Jos said, rising to hands and knees, he’s taking the afternoon off.
He crossed Holger on all fours, stood and rolled his shoulders, cupped a hand over the pouch of his jockstrap, appraising its swell, clucked through puckered lips, prodded Pascal’s shoulder lightly with his toe, and sat beside him, shoving a hand with walking fingers under his shirt.
—Talk about being familiar, Pascal said.
—Nobody’s looking, Jos said.
—Somebody’s untying my shoes, Pascal said. And winkling off my socks.
—Holger’s still here, Holger said, but how much longer I can’t promise.
—That’s my zipper!
—Squeaky clean didies, Jos said, extra small. Shake him out of his shirt, Holger, while I deprive you of your shoes. We’re all, before hr. Sigurjonsson comes home, going to have a big rough threeway hug,
just as God made us, because the world is full of hopeless nerds afraid of being touched and too fucking mean to cuddle a puppy, and we’re sweet daffy friends, yes? Oh yes!
—Oh wow! Pascal said.
—Undo Holger in various places, Jos said, and skin him to the balls. He’s more or less covered with red hair all over, which will tickle.
Holger, crimson, nevertheless stood for Pascal to unbutton his shirt with awkward fingers. He unbuckled his belt himself, and had begun on the brass buttons of his hiking shorts when Jos took over, deftly, and hauled down shorts and briefs together.
—Jim bang goofy! Pascal said, Jos lifting him into Holger’s arms.
—That’s the spirit, Jos said, collapsing them onto the pine needles with a robust, pulling hug. Pascal between them, Holger and Jos, hands locked in the small of each other’s backs, rocked into momentum enough to roll over twice.
They lay still. Jos, caressing Holger’s back, nuzzled his face in Pascal’s hair. He kissed the back of Pascal’s neck, relinquishing the doubleness of his embrace to hug Pascal alone.
—Your turn, he said, rolling away.
Pascal wrapped arms and legs around Holger.
—That’s the style, Cricket, Jos said. Nothing shy. I’m right here, greedy, when you’ve squeezed Holger breathless.
—OK, Pascal said, tousled of hair, dazed and vague of eye, but you and Holger have to hug, too, next.
They complied, laughing happily, Jos drumming his heels on the ground.
—We’re stuck all over with pine needles, Jos said, sitting up and gasping. One on my dick. Tell you what: I started this, and I see how to wrap it up before hr. Sigurjonsson puts a stop to it. I get one more warm and wild hug from Pascal, and Holger gets one, exactly as warm and wild, and then we turn back into stodgy Danes out hiking, huh?
Warm and wild hugs hugged, Holger brushed and picked pine needles off Pascal with a dreamy gentleness, and held his underpants for him to step into, and settled their fit.
The Death of Picasso Page 40