Bryce kissed a mouth bearing delight, a mouth that did not devour. Thus was Paul to him on a winter night in the mangy back of a hired cab. It had ceased to snow. For a little while yet the spell would endure, quiet, untrampled. Bryce thought of returning to the darkness of Paul's rooms, remembering their atmosphere of faded luxury implying a resigned despair, where his desire had first surprised him. Now he would truly enter that darkness. He could feel his body preparing, receiving, accepting the imminence of the event.
Bryce would have claimed then that the certainty and the energy emanated from Paul, that Paul was the source in which he basked. At that time, finding courage in Paul, Bryce didn't consider his own portion and hence neglected to appreciate his influence, only thinking of Paul's. He failed to recognize that Paul for the moment could not help being what he was, living as he did, and, while he tried all in his power to make his life appear beguiling, it wasn't necessarily what he wished for himself. Courage, on the other hand, was what Paul perceived in Bryce, and he would have disliked it indeed had he known meanwhile that Bryce was attributing courage to him.
Paul wasn't in the mood for living up to expectations of that sort in his private life in those days. But all the same he couldn't help feeling strongly drawn to Bryce, to the beauty of Bryce's face eased of its usual restraint, flowering with desire. He remembered that in one of the Eastern philosophies it is said that the softest in the world will overpower the hardest, that the insubstantial will penetrate where there is no opening. In Bryce, he glimpsed a man more profoundly unattached than himself. He sensed vaguely that Bryce had a strength that somehow was paradoxically connected to his illness. There was, then, in his feeling for Bryce, this respect veiling his pity, which might assure a solicitousness, a gentle deference.
Paul knew that Bryce wanted him to bring him home, though neither had spoken to the other about it. He knew that he would do it, but knew also that, had Bryce felt otherwise, he would have acquiesced without a word.
"Are you going to be around for awhile?" Bryce asked Paul wistfully.
"Do you mean, will I stay to the bitter end?"
Paul's reply and his abrupt laugh which followed it sounded cruel to Bryce. But Paul embraced him again, and he forgot to worry about what Paul meant.
Paul took Bryce to a home he would be losing when his subtenancy ended in a matter of weeks. Sitting back in the cab with Bryce's head resting against his shoulder, he couldn't help remembering other rooms where he'd made love, now lost to him, and other lovers also lost. Some of his attachments in the past had been so easy, but then there had come a disillusionment. Yet he didn't dwell on these thoughts—he was too aware of Bryce for that.
If I am beautiful, Paul thought, let it be for you. My beauty will mean more to me if it is for you.
Thus does the lover discover that he, too, is beloved.
Inevitably, the snow will fall and collect and melt, leases will expire, property change hands, people move away or die; but, for a portion of an hour, it seemed to Paul and Bryce, taking a ride around the park only for the pleasure of it, and of being together, that for awhile they had removed themselves from that world and entered another, a world where all was suspended, breathless, in reverence and anticipation of the irrevocable changes of love.
Chapter 10
Early in their acquaintance, Paul intuited that Bryce dreaded being condescended to, scorned, or pitied. He observed how difficult it was for Bryce to ask anything of anyone and saw how guarded he was, in consequence, in his offers. He perceived that Bryce held himself back as much from a dread of dependency as from a fear of being taken advantage of.
They were lovers for three weeks before Bryce invited Paul to his Upper West Side apartment. In the beginning they always used Paul's East Village sublet. On the January day when Paul finally stepped out onto the tar roof of Bryce's building and saw the penthouse, he fell in love with it. An hour later, reclining on Bryce's green velvet couch, he wondered if he would be happy living anywhere else.
He thought to himself, Bryce already knows that I have to leave my apartment at the end of February. What are the chances that he'll ask me to move in?
In the days that followed, Paul dropped hints to Bryce in the hopes that Bryce would make him an offer. But as he came to know Bryce better, he realized that he would have to ask. He wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject of their living together. At last, one night as they stood side by side brushing their teeth in Bryce's bathroom, he simply said, "You know, I might as well move in."
As soon as he'd said it, he wished he hadn't. It sounded so rude. But soon after they'd rinsed their mouths and were cleaning their toothbrushes, he heard Bryce answer, "You might," and he realized that Bryce had been expecting him to ask, and that he was prepared to say yes.
"Do you really mean it?" Paul asked, addressing Bryce's reflection in the mirror.
"I think I do," admitted Bryce.
The qualification made him sound sincere to Paul. Joyfully, he flung his arms around Bryce.
"Do you think we can adjust to each other?" Bryce wondered aloud, after he had extricated himself.
"We can try," said Paul.
In the past, Paul had been known to change his residence three times in a single year. Because of the difficulty of finding Manhattan apartments and his relative poverty, he had grown accustomed to impermanent arrangements. He owned very little furniture and could move his belongings, if he had to, all by himself. In contrast to the places where he had been living, Bryce's apartment was palatial, and so he was grateful to Bryce.
He was also nervous. He had expected more resistance from Bryce and in turn was prepared to suggest some advantages to him. Bryce's ready acquiescence left him somewhat at a loss, and he found himself blurting out his proposal anyway, which concerned his plans for a garden. Except for some meager potted shrubs, Bryce had done nothing in the way of planting. To Bryce, Paul depicted the roof expanse as an empty canvas waiting to be filled in. He became animated as he talked about installing raised beds, building a fountain. He inspired Bryce’s enthusiasm.
Planning the garden became an indirect way for the men to feel each other out in their new arrangements. The topic was a pleasant one, full of hope and promise, implying that they were truly making a home, planning for the future. When Paul described the garden, it appeared before Bryce like a mirage, attracting him.
As Paul began to gradually transfer his possessions to Bryce's, a box at a time, many particulars remained undiscussed between them. They had not, for instance, spoken of money. Paul hadn't asked Bryce what his expenses were for the penthouse, and Bryce hadn't offered the information. Paul assumed that Bryce's law practice was lucrative and suspected that he had savings and investments in addition to his earnings. For years Paul had survived as a dancer by spending as little as possible and taking odd jobs when it was necessary. He didn't intend to pay half of Bryce's bills; he was certain that he couldn't afford to. He justified his intentions to himself by thinking of services that he could perform for Bryce, to help earn his keep. Yet these remained private vows, made in his mind, subject to revision, and not a bargain he struck openly with Bryce.
Bryce's disinclination to bring up the subject of money led Paul to believe that Bryce was either too good-mannered to mention it, or else that he was really unconcerned about it. In any case, Paul could think of no better proof of love than generosity, and if Bryce could afford to be generous, Paul was willing to love him.
Paul told himself that, over time, the arrangements would work themselves out, and if they didn't, well, then, he'd leave. As he packed his belongings, he felt no grief at giving up his sublet, only relief that he was coming up in the world. Yet, on the cold February afternoon when a cab let him out on Bryce's corner, with two suitcases stuffed with his clothes and a knapsack over his shoulders, he was suddenly tormented by apprehension. He tried to calm himself. I'm not desperate, I'm not destitute, he reminded himself. In the past I've always been able to find a
place to stay at a moment's notice. I'm not making any step that I can't retrace later if I have to.
Under a gunmetal gray sky, the air was raw. As Paul entered his new building, water dripped on top of his head from its high cornice, precipitated there by the morning's rain. He shook his head, and his blond hair flew about his face, scattering drops of rain. Inside the lobby, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror—dressed boldly in a red-and-purple striped sweater-coat, hand-knit in South America, that he'd found in a boutique on East Fifth Street. Underneath the bright coat, he wore black and gray.
He took the elevator up to the roof and set down his suitcases on the landing. He buzzed the door that led outside. Against his back he could feel the bottle of champagne in his knapsack that he'd taken care to procure—his form of insurance. He was about to buzz again when the door opened, and he saw Bryce just outside, leaning on a cane.
Smiling, Paul went outside, tossing his hair back, out of habit. Silently he gazed at Bryce, at his enigmatic smile, which seemed both glad and rueful, at the dark hair blown across his forehead, the bony hollows around his eyes. He waited, willing Bryce to speak.
"Welcome," said Bryce, just as Paul wished. "Welcome to your new home."
"I'm glad to be here," said Paul, and meant it, his doubts instantly dissipated. He felt both bold and tender as he embraced Bryce warmly. The sun came out from a cloud and was immediately dimmed behind another: a sun like a moon, bald white. As Bryce led, Paul followed with his suitcases into the penthouse.
In the living room, Paul looked around in fresh delight at the green velvet couch and the comfortable chairs, the Persian rug, the shelves holding books and a stereo. In the cast-iron stove, a fire was burning. A rich aroma of roasting lamb perfumed the air. Already he felt at home.
"What can I do to help?" he asked.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll check the kitchen." In a few minutes Bryce was back. "Everything's under control," he announced, looking so pleased that Paul couldn't resist embracing him again.
"I'll do my best to make you happy," he promised impulsively, gazing into Bryce's eyes, his hands on Bryce's shoulders. "You heard it here first." Transported by emotion, Paul blinked back tears.
A smile played on Bryce's lips, a melancholy, private, inner smile. Paul met that smile with his lips, and with his kiss he erased it.
A single kiss, a thousand kisses: over the months, Bryce's house became Paul's also, in all but name. A garden bloomed by Paul's design. He also performed household repairs, assisted in renovations. When an addition was planned and built, it was for a dance studio for Paul. Bryce, normally cautious when it came to money, had made no protest and provided all the outlay for the construction. In a little speech he had explained to Paul that he got as much pleasure from seeing Paul dance as Paul did from dancing. Bryce controlled the finances, but soon that distinction was softened. They opened a joint checking account, and eventually Paul had access to charge accounts and credit cards. Paul deposited all his wages from dance into the account, but he no longer took odd jobs just to get by. Paul's contributions never equalled his share of the expenditures, but if Bryce occasionally thought Paul profligate, he in return was sarcastic, and the one attitude mitigated the other.
Paul believed that Bryce, as well as he, was better off than before in their life together. While admiring Bryce's stoicism, his reason, his sharp wit, he introduced lighthearted, trifling games, exaggerated opinions, a private language. He was, as he knew how to be, affectionate.
Moving in with Bryce, Paul adapted. All of a sudden he revelled in domesticity. He and Bryce drew up guest lists, entertained with gusto, and recorded the occasions with snapshots. They settled into routines and got away with taking the other for granted.
From the penthouse they watched the river and the boats that travelled it, mainly barges and tugboats, sometimes pleasure craft with sails. They gazed up at the sky, at cloud castles billowed so high they made the features of the land appear smaller, even the great palisades that faced them across the river.
It was a view Paul never tired of. Sometimes during their days together that first spring, Paul would look up from his work on the roof garden and see, through the windows of the penthouse, Bryce passing inside. Bryce would appear with cold drinks and a snack that they would consume together companionably, out-of doors. For Paul, there was a feeling of well-being and contentment in these moments, and even a sense of poignancy, as he perceived himself through Bryce's eyes.
He thought, In the strange territory of the other, man seeks a clue to his most secret self. Bryce's illness was a constant revelation, or, rather, not the disease itself, but the man who suffered it. The intimacy had felt precious to Paul from its outset. Sometimes, when he was with Bryce, he felt superhuman, but sometimes it was Bryce who seemed so. The alternations of greatness that he experienced with Bryce were mysterious and rare. But if life with Bryce was a privilege, it was also a burden.
Still, he had desired Bryce's confidence before he knew what it was, or how it would affect him. And after all, it was Bryce who had opened his home and his heart and taken him in. It wasn't an issue of what Bryce could afford; he had not done so before.
That first spring Paul devoted his free time to making the roof bloom. He worked—so Bryce described it—like a man possessed. He laid down cedar pallets for a deck. He built two raised beds, measuring four feet by eight feet and twenty inches deep. Dozens of heavy bags of soil were delivered to the roof, so many that Bryce thought the co-op board would complain, but no one tried to prevent him.
In the beds Paul planted spring flowers—the wizened bulbs of daffodils and tulips, and bleeding hearts and snapdragons from seed. After they bloomed, he planned to remove the bulbs and plant dahlias and chrysanthemums. He would experiment over time, he decided, with other ornamental plantings. Perhaps he would try his hand with a hardy rosebush in its own planter.
He constructed a third raised bed, at a short distance from the others. This was his kitchen garden: four tomato plants, herbs, greens, and edible green weeds—curly lamb's quarters, purslane, and dandelions. For color he planted black-eyed Susans, mallow, and buttercups.
Paul bought three square wooden planters and filled them with two small pine trees and a Japanese maple with dark red, narrow leaves. He bought pots of juniper with tiny blue berries.
He constructed a fountain of fiberglass, bordered with thin slabs of marble, which he purchased as seconds from an East Harlem stoneyard. He hooked up an electric pump. He and Bryce found a wrought-iron bench in a design of vines and leaves, a glass-topped table, and matching chairs.
He pored over nursery catalogues and gardening manuals. He learned as he went along. He discovered that because the garden was on the roof, it had to be watered every day. He made mistakes and there were surprises, but generally the plants flourished under his care. On a whim he purchased two goldfish, with showy red-orange fins and tails which swirled gracefully as the fish swam in ovals in the fiberglass basin of the fountain. He and Bryce listened by the hour to the pleasant sound of water splashing in the fountain, as they inhaled the junipers' tangy scent.
Paul described to Bryce how next he hoped to train wisteria over a trellis. By his second spring with Bryce, he began to feel that he, too, was the product of his own cultivation or of Bryce's. While their life continued, domestic and quiet, the awareness of habit lay more heavily on him. Nevertheless, as the year blossomed into its longest days, there were times when he felt beautifully happy at home, puttering in the garden, sitting with Bryce on the cast-iron bench by the fountain and listening to the placid tinkling of its waters, watching the late light, slanting and yellow over the river and treetops, cast on the sides of buildings. He basked in contentment. Yet sometimes he found himself slightly holding back, as if cautious of Bryce's fragility, or as if he sensed, like a shadow, Bryce's indifference.
* * *
Summer was a leafy whisper in the deepening foliage. It was mid-June, mid-morni
ng, and Paul was going out to pick up some groceries as he often did, stop at the cleaner's, and maybe browse at the florist's. Just as he opened the door, he called to Bryce from the foyer, "I'm leaving. I'll be back in an hour or two."
From the bedroom Bryce heard the door close. He had been reading over a contract, writing in corrections, but now he laid down his pencil and put the contract back in its folder. He sat for a while, listening to the silence of the empty house. He heard from outside the harsh cawing of a crow, and considered that it might be interested in the garden, but he didn't feel like going out to chase it away. One of his neighbors on the top floor below him was practicing the saxophone, playing the same refrain over and over, like a broken record.
Annoyed, he closed the windows, and then he drew the blinds, shutting out the summer day. He felt himself pause, and he sat on the edge of the bed, all his thoughts leaving him except for one. Deliberately, he took off his clothes and shut the bedroom door. Then he lay down on the bed.
In the beginning, he was sad, finding his need a weakness, and knowing he wouldn't resist. Was this a sin, he wondered, was he ashamed? Or was this just a habit that he picked up in his adolescence, and never lost? He put aside his scruples, his mind unhooked, and he lay emptied in a vast emptiness.
Images of fancy peopled his solitude, and he came apart in it. Idly he stroked the warm, smooth skin over his ribs and in the hollows between them, following the lay of the dark, silky hairs. Only his hands were moving at first. Gradually, he grew intent. Through every parched pore of himself, he felt the concentration of his substance. He was taut, tense with it, all flame in a single flame. It seemed to him that he probed his very life while he grasped this living core. Absorbed in himself, he didn't hear Paul return.
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