By the time he finished college, he was an experienced and, for those who wanted him in the way he preferred, a quite breathtaking lover of men. Because it had all taken place within the framework of normal school life, he had no feeling of having committed himself to a future of vice or perversion. He wasn’t a pansy or a fairy or a queer; he knew some of those and they disgusted him. When he met Peter as a house guest of his grandmother’s during the summer after his graduation, he had had no sense of corrupting an innocent when he introduced him to pleasures that, nearing twenty, Peter could have been expected to have discovered for himself by then. It had been just harmless fun, except the boy had succeeded in finally overthrowing all his guards. Peter had fallen so openly and articulately and passionately in love with him that it was impossible for him not to declare his own passion. He had fought it, even to the point of going through with his disastrous marriage, but only very briefly had there been any doubt in his mind that he had to be with Peter. The words once said couldn’t be withdrawn. They had held him for eleven years. It couldn’t change. Peter wouldn’t let it change.
He eased back in his chair and looked up at the star-filled sky. He thought of sailing under them to Greece. The nasty little incident this evening had distracted them from things that really mattered. He would settle with Jean-Claude in the morning and then go by the Kingsleys’ boat and make a definite date for dinner. And if it turned out that there was more to the story than Peter was admitting? Disagreeable things still happened inside him when he thought of it—the churning stomach, the accelerating heart. He needed another drink. He pulled himself up and went in to find the bottle. Remember, he warned himself as he poured a generous refresher. His own fidelity hadn’t always been as perfect as he liked to pretend. But Peter had been away, he thought defensively. He had been going out of his mind with longing for him and loneliness. True, but if his living with a man was such a fluke, as he also liked to pretend, if he found it so hard to understand how Peter could be attracted to a pretty boy, why hadn’t he found a girl to keep himself company? Peter would have found that much easier to accept if he had ever discovered anything and, having been married, Charlie no longer found girls so inaccessible as he had when he was growing up. No, it had to be boys. He thought of his chance meeting in a bar with Hal when Peter had been gone only a few months and he had still been resolutely celibate. The bar had been a discreetly semiqueer one in the East Fifties and he had not gone there on the make but simply to try to get through another hour without Peter. Hal had been the first person he had seen when he entered, very glamorous in a superbly tailored captain’s uniform. They hadn’t met for nearly five years. They fell into each other’s arms. Their greeting was more intimate than it could have been elsewhere; they held hands for a moment.
“I never expected to find you in a place like this,” Hal said. “I thought you were married.”
Charlie had forgotten how beautiful his voice was, probably because he had never said much. Otherwise, this was the same young man he had so supremely possessed; the look of the green eyes still gave him the shock he had felt that morning in the shower, the aloof smile, the refined sensuality of the mouth summoned him to reestablish his mastery over them. “I was married,” he said. “For about four months. What about you?”
“You of all people shouldn’t have to ask that. You’re still a civilian?”
“I had a slight case of polio as a kid. It seems that one leg is an eighth of an inch shorter than the other. Nobody will take me. It’s driving me nuts.”
They talked about their lives since graduation. Charlie explained that he had quit his job in a publishing house and was devoting himself to painting. Peter was introduced into the conversation, since this had been Peter’s idea and Peter was keeping him. They laughed about a Princeton man being a kept boy. Peter was stationed in California. So was Hal. They commented on the coincidence. Suddenly Hal stared.
“Good God. You couldn’t be talking about Peter Martin by any chance, could you?”
“Of course,” Charlie said proudly.
“Good God Almighty. That divine creature. If anybody could make me forget you, he could. He’s in my outfit. Of course. I understand now. He looks like you. I knew something was bothering me but I couldn’t place it. All that golden hair. You lucky devil.”
Charlie laughed softly. “I think so.”
Hal wanted to know all about him. Why wasn’t he an officer? Charlie explained that he didn’t want to be, that his father was a general and Peter was very antimilitary. Why hadn’t he gone to college?
“He was about to go to West Point when we met. He’d missed a couple of years of school. We decided to stay together and he resigned his appointment. He’s taken a lot of courses at Columbia.”
“That’s the kind of story I like to hear. You don’t hear many like it. You’re going to live happily ever after? Vows of fidelity and all the rest of it? Needless to say, I haven’t found anybody else like you, so I’m still playing the field. Maybe some day.” He paused and the green eyes gave Charlie another jolt. “I suppose you know what I’ve been thinking.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“Is there any chance of doing more than thinking about it?” Charlie reluctantly shook his head, but Hal went on, “It wouldn’t really be infidelity. I found you first.”
Charlie had already thought of that. It made a difference, but not enough. What if Peter picked up with one of his old lovers? No, he couldn’t let himself do it. “Christ, Hal. Don’t tempt me. Now that we’ve been around a bit, we’d be fantastic together. I know that.”
“Don’t you have any patriotism? What about the morale of the services and all that? I could lick the Germans singlehanded if I had another day or two with you. You’re attempting the impossible, old love. It’s easier for Peter because he doesn’t have much opportunity to play around. But you. If you don’t break down with me, you’re bound to with somebody else sooner or later. I’ve always adored you. I wish you’d let it be me.”
“I hope you’re not right. If I can say no to you, I should think I could say no to anybody.” (Famous last words. He had met Tony only about a month later.)
“Thanks for putting it like that. Well, knowing Peter, I can see your point. I’d gladly turn in my captain’s bars if I though I had a chance with him.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re that sure of him?”
“Surer than I am of myself, unfortunately.”
“Lucky lads. Both of you.”
The bastard, Charlie thought as he wandered restlessly around the moon-washed terrace nursing his drink. Hal was another one he would gladly tear to pieces if he could get his hands on him. Peter seemed to have a knack for letting people get him into trouble through no fault of his own. At least that was always his version of it. Unfair, he reprimanded himself. The trouble with Hal had almost broken him. Charlie had never doubted his story. Besides, they had been separated. Almost anything could have been forgiven. Jean-Claude was different. Right here under his nose. Even if Peter had led him on a bit, it was unpardonable for. Jean-Claude to think that Peter’s friend would sit by while he took over, attacking Peter, trying to have him in front of practically the entire party. No matter what had brought it on, he would be sorry for that.
Charlie’s glass was almost empty. He considered refilling it but decided against it. He wanted to be up early and out before Peter was awake. He took a final swallow and went into the living room and snapped off lights and stretched out fully dressed on the sofa. He wasn’t going up to Peter. He couldn’t go near Peter as long as a doubt remained.
He slept fitfully, waking with a start to reach for Peter, sinking back into sleep with foreboding clutching at his heart. The sun hadn’t been up long when he abandoned further attempts at sleep and tiptoed upstairs. He took his time to prepare himself for the day. Peter ususally slept till eight-thirty or nine. He couldn’t pay his morning call any earlier than that. He had pl
enty of time, too much time.
Their clothes were spread about in closets and bureaus in various rooms and he was able to find shorts and T-shirt and sandals without going into the bedroom where Peter was sleeping. He mustn’t wake Peter. He mustn’t see Peter. Peter might undermine all his resolve. When he had had a light breakfast, it was still too early to go, so he spent some restless time pacing about the downstairs room he had set up as a studio. Partly finished canvases were propped up against the walls, on chairs and, the one he had started day before yesterday, on an easel. He couldn’t look at them. They all looked wrong. His heart was beating erratically and there were odd constrictions in his chest and stomach. The woman who worked for them arrived at eight, and he could wait no longer. He left word for Peter that he had gone to town to get a color he needed and left.
He drove around the back of the town and took the bayside road until he reached the turn that climbed to Gassin. At the first rise, he saw the house and driveway. It had been pointed out to him several times; he had never been there. He came to a stop near a long converted farmhouse under a great cork oak and got out. The stillness peculiar to houses where people are sleeping enveloped him. He moved lightly along a gravel path, wondering if he dared break the stillness by knocking or calling out. A neat old woman emerged from a door and greeted him. “Ah, bonjour, monsieur,” she said, with a smile, in a muted voice. “Monsieur Jeannot left word that you should go right up. He’s waiting for you.”
Charlie stared at her without seeing her. A great, cold emptiness opened up in his stomach. His mind seemed incapable of thought, but the awful knowledge was lodged in it. The old woman had taken him for Peter.
So it was all over. All the years of devotion and contentment smashed. He thought he would thank the old woman and go, but she was looking at him questioningly. He had to be absolutely sure. He collected himself and managed to smile with stiff lips. “Let’s see. Waiting—where—” he said. That was all right. Peter had been here, but he couldn’t have come so often that they had established a routine.
“Right up to the right,” the woman said, indicating the door through which Charlie saw a staircase. “Where I showed you the other morning. The door at the end of the corridor.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He forced himself to move. His mind began to function more normally. It was over, but he would bring the whole structure of their lives crashing down in his own way, on his own terms. He would make Peter wish they had never met. He reached the foot of the stairs. He needed a moment to make sure he was completely in control of himself. He was frightened of what might happen when he saw Jean-Claude. He forced himself to start up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was shaken by a gust of rage. Peter had been here; he had hurried down this hall eager and lusting. Rage drove and freed him. He went quickly to the door and tried it gently. It opened before him. He stepped silently inside. Jean-Claude was lying on a big bed with his back turned, a sheet pulled up over his hips. Charlie’s eye was held by a tube of lubricant on the bedside table. He pushed the door closed with a click.
“Peter,” Jean-Claude muttered thickly, as if he were speaking in his sleep.
“Not exactly.” There was a second’s silence and then Jean-Claude rolled over quickly to face him. He saw the thrust of an erection lift the sheet as he did so. As Jean-Claude’s eyes focused, he struggled up into a sitting position on one hip, propped up on an arm. He was flushed and tousled with sleep. Now? Spring at him and drag him from the bed and beat him into the floor? He saw fear leap up into Jean-Claude’s eyes, an almost ecstatic fear. He would enjoy being beaten. He took a step forward and Jean-Claude shrank back.
“What’s—you—” he mumbled, his eyes staring.
“Take your time to wake up.”
“I’ve been up. I must’ve gone to sleep again.” He lifted his other hand and ran it through his hair.
“Waiting for Peter?” His eyes shifted to the lubricant and back.
“I don’t understand. What—”
“I thought it was about time for me to take charge.”
“Take charge? Does Peter know you’re here?”
“I don’t know. He might guess. I’ve come to see you.”
“But why? I don’t—”
“Why did the maid tell me to come right up?” He summoned up all his control. The urge to smash the boy’s face was almost too great to contain, but he knew now that that would be letting him off too easily. “Don’t you think it’s natural for me to be interested in somebody who’s been going to bed with Peter?” His stomach heaved but he had a firm grip on himself.
“But that’s crazy. You don’t think—”
“It’s all right. You don’t have to deny it. I know all about it. You met him in Nice last week.”
Jean-Claude studied Charlie for a moment. He seemed reassured by what he saw and relaxed visibly. “He wanted me to. I’m in love with him,” he said defensively.
“That’s apt to be a pretty painful experience for you.”
“I don’t care. I want him with me. I want to take him away from you.”
“You are ambitious. And what does Peter think?”
“I don’t know. He’s fighting it.”
“I wonder why he’s doing that.” He felt a lessening of tension as he reconsidered his course of action. His eye was able to make a solid composition of the figure on the bed. The elements were good—the big, ruddy, copper torso curving up to heavy shoulders propped up by the column of arm, the expanse of white sheet he was sprawled on, the other white sheet that covered his legs and cut him off at the waist. The legs made an interesting pattern of the sheet. The other arm lay along them. The arch of his brows was quite magnificent. The big eyes and heavy mouth were darkly inviting. He was a fine figure of a youth, a painted statue; all the lines flowed softly into each other like Hellenistic work, faintly hermaphroditic. The smudge of hair in the middle of his chest didn’t belong. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He shifted his legs slightly.
Jean-Claude’s eyes dropped to Charlie’s shorts as he moved toward the bed and sat on the edge of it. He sensed a soft compliancy in the boy, which made the lubricant on the bedside table a jarring note. What had they been up to? “Tell me about it. Why do you think you can take him away from me?”
“He loves me. I know it.”
“He doesn’t say so?”
“No. But that’s because he’s fighting it. I give him things you don’t.” He dropped his eyes.
“Such as?”
The eyes lifted defiantly. “He likes to fuck me.”
“I see,” Charlie said. So that was it. This big, voluptuous youth had aroused some dormant masculine urge in Peter. It mitigated his guilt to some slight degree. “That’s not surprising. You look highly fuckable.”
Jean-Claude looked startled. “You mean, you—?”
“I mean just that. What was all the excitement about last night?”
“You know about it? I was losing out of my mind. Is that right? Everybody heard what you did with Peter yesterday. I wanted to make him know I would fuck him, too.”
“By tearing his clothes off? I didn’t like that.” The murderous rage flared up in him again. Looking at the boy, feeling him melt toward him, he realized what a tenuous hold he had on reality; he could drive him insane. After that, he would take care of Peter. He forced a suggestive look into his eyes. “I thought you were interested in me when we first met.”
Jean-Claude’s big eyes softened. “I was. I was in love with you both at first. You were not interested in me.”
“How do you know? I don’t always show what I’m feeling. Peter’s had you. I think it’s my turn now.”
“But this is incredible. Does Peter know? Do you always share each other’s lovers?”
“Sure. Why not? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“But how could I? I love Peter. He will be angry.”
“That’s a
ll right. Make him jealous. That’s always good when somebody is pretending not to love you.”
“You’re very exciting. If you think—” His free hand crept forward to Charlie’s thigh and gave consent. Charlie pushed it away. He reached over and pulled the sheet from him. Jean-Claude snatched for it, but Charlie had already pushed one leg from the other and released the concealed sex. It sprang forward and lay rigid along his abdomen. Hip and buttock curved massively.
“Well, aren’t you the cocky one,” Charlie said. “Did I do that to you, or were you thinking of Peter?” He looked Jean-Claude in the eye.
“No. You,” he murmured. Jean-Claude’s eyes were yearning for him now. He saw the throb of his heart become visible beneath his breast, his lips parting. He looked at the body and felt its lush physical appeal. There would be some perverse pleasure in it, in being where Peter had been.
He was wrenched by a tearing conflict of desires—a rage to hut and humiliate both Peter and his lover, a longing to be away from here, a stirring of the old thirst, long forgotten, to see beyond the face, to possess a stranger and discover an intimate inunguarded, satisfied eyes.
Jean-Claude swayed toward him in anticipation of a kiss and his hand moved up his thigh. Charlie pushed him away and stood slowly and pulled his shirt over his head. He kicked off his sandals. How long had it been since he had stripped for a stranger? Milly had been the last. Milly had been with him when Peter’s telegram had arrived, announcing catastrophe. He stood for a moment looking down at Jean-Claude, seeing Milly, sweet Milly, funny Milly, slim and willowy, every hair removed from his body, except for a neatly shaped pubic patch, for the drag act he did when he could get an engagement. Charlie unfastened his shorts and let them drop to the floor. His sex stretched the silken pouch he wore against his skin.
The Peter & Charlie Trilogy Page 39