The Lost Language of Cranes

by David Leavitt

  He turned to look inside the bar. Behind the smoky glass window, figures lounged against wooden counters, talked, drank. A man in a business suit hurried in, a trio of pale youths in leather jackets hurried out, all oblivious to Owen. The obliviousness disappointed him somehow. In certain ways he wanted to be noticed as much as he wanted not to be noticed.

  He thought of pacing around the block once, then decided to be braver than that and, marching up to the door, pushed through it. It gave gently as a curtain at his touch. A smell of cigarette smoke engulfed him. The room was dark, but not as dark as the theatre. He let his eyes adjust. It was not a large place. In the corner an old-fashioned jukebox played Tina Turner at a reasonable volume. Twenty or thirty men were milling around the bar, standing at the counters and sitting at the few tables, most of them Owen’s age, their collars and ties loosened, their jackets around their arms. In addition, some much younger thin black men and muscular Puerto Ricans stood in trios and clusters, not speaking, their eyes roving the room.

  Cautiously, still shaking a little, Owen made his way to the bar. “Gin and tonic,” he told the bartender in a surprisingly normal voice. He looked around. No one was noticing him. He took off his jacket, loosened his collar and tie. The bartender, a huge man in a muscle T-shirt, handed him his drink in a tumbler. “Thanks,” he said. It calmed him to talk, to have something in his hand. He paid and moved away from the bar, looking for a place to stand, and chose an empty corner where he could hide in semi-darkness, not quite invisible, and watch.

  There was not that much to watch. Nearby, some men in their thirties were arguing loudly over the stock market. In the corner, near the jukebox, a young couple kissed, caressed, danced, gyrated, crotches grinding together. All of it was interesting to Owen. The men in the bar were relaxed; they might have been anywhere. That was the most interesting thing about them.

  Out of nowhere, a man was suddenly standing next to Owen, against the wall. They turned to observe each other at the same moment. The man nodded; Owen turned away. A flash of lust seared through him at the mere possibility of contact. He turned again, looked cautiously. The man was in his early forties, dark, bearded. He had on a white shirt, no tie, a jacket, and he was drinking beer out of a bottle—a gesture Owen found, at the moment, astonishingly sexy. He turned away and could feel, like radar, the man’s head turning, his eyes scanning him. Then he turned away again. Owen looked back. The man was drinking his beer, staring straight toward the bar. He looked strong; his legs, bound in tight denim and boots, moved slightly to the rhythm of the music.

  Owen gulped from his drink, praying that the gin would give him confidence. Soon he felt braver. He turned, looked at the man, who turned and looked at him. They nodded slightly and said, “How’re you doing?” at the same moment.

  “Fine,” they then said, again at the same moment, and laughed.

  Then the man turned again to face the bar. His legs moved to the music. His head moved to the music. He took a swig from his beer bottle.

  Owen looked at his feet, at the floor. But before he had a chance to make a decision about what to do, the man turned to him, holding out his empty beer bottle, and said, “Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “Uh—sure,” Owen said. “A gin and tonic?”

  “Okay,” the man said.

  “Oh, let me give you some money.”

  “No, no,” the man said. “This one’s on me.” Then he walked away.

  After a few sweaty moments he came back, bearing another beer and a gin and tonic for Owen. “I’m Frank,” he said.

  “Owen,” Owen said.

  They shook hands. Frank’s hands were enormous, enveloping.

  “You come here a lot?” Frank said.

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither. I just work in the neighborhood sometimes, and then I drop by after work.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a contractor,” Frank said, and nodded to the rhythm of the music. Owen nodded as well. They nodded together. Frank laughed.

  Then he turned around again, faced the bar. For another few moments, they stared at nothing.

  “This bar used to have another name,” Owen said.

  “Did it?”

  “Yes, it was called Sugar Magnolia.”

  “Oh.” Frank turned, looked Owen straight in the eye.

  “You married?” he asked, his eyes focussing on Owen’s ring.

  “Yes,” Owen said.

  “Thought so.” Frank looked away again. “Me too,” he added.

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s tough, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Across the bar the gyrating boys had disappeared. “It’s a good, stable stock, goddamnit,” said one of the brokers. Owen closed his eyes, opened them again.

  “My wife,” Frank said, fingering the chain around his neck. “She’s real naïve. Good Catholic background. We got married when we were eighteen. She—she just wants to take care of the kids, go to church. She doesn’t want trouble, you know?”

  “Do you live in the city?”

  “Staten Island,” Frank said. “But I have a friend’s place for tonight.” He looked at Owen.

  Now Owen was confused. Was the friend also married? Was there some sort of brotherhood of married gay men in the world, loaning each other apartments, finding each other in bars? He began to fear for a moment that Frank just wanted to induct him, to be his friend. Maybe the rule was that they were only supposed to sleep with the younger men.

  “The other night,” Frank said, “some kids came in here. One of them shouted at the top of his lungs, ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’ ” Frank laughed. “You should’ve seen these guys drop their glasses—like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Funny, I guess,” Owen said, and Frank nodded. He seemed restless, shuffling on his feet like an adolescent boy. Finally he turned and his face bore down on Owen’s, so that Owen could feel the bristles on his beard, smell the beer on his breath. “Listen,” he said. “Are you a nice guy or what? Because what I really need right now is a nice guy, someone who knows what he’s doing, not some schmuck. I mean, there are a lot of schmucks around, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Owen said. “I need that, too.”

  “I want a man,” Frank said. “You know what I’m saying? When I saw you across the bar, I thought—hey, there’s a guy who looks—different. Sensitive.”

  Owen was dazed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

  Frank moved closer, so that their thighs touched. “So, like I said, I’ve got this place for tonight. Do you want to go there with me? I mean, it could be real nice. You know, like that song. ‘We’ve got tonight, who needs tomorrow?’ ” He smiled. Owen smiled. “I don’t know that song,” Owen said. “But I certainly understand the sentiment.”

  “I’ll just go get my coat from the check room,” Frank said, and he moved away. Owen leaned against the wall, breathing steadily. He was surprisingly relaxed. He didn’t feel like he was doing much of anything out of the ordinary. All he knew was that he yearned for Frank to get back from the check room as fast as he could, and when he did, Owen could see Frank was in a hurry as well. The place he had for the night was a studio apartment in the East Nineties, he told him. Owen nodded. He put on his jacket, and they walked out of the bar together, into the public street, full of people he might have known. Frank hailed a cab. On the way, in the cab, he held Owen’s hand.

  It was a small apartment in a walk-up building, decorated simply and sparsely, like a motel room. Almost as soon as they arrived, Frank turned on the overhead light, and Owen took his coat off in the brightness. Out of the dark bar, Frank’s face was a little pockmarked. His stomach sagged over his pants. There was something faintly dirty about his clothes and hair. And suddenly the dreamlike prospect of this moment, nurtured in the bar, gave way to something different—two older men, both married, both a little out of shape, meeting to make love
, to touch each other and make each other feel better. Not an unpleasant prospect. Besides, Owen had had his fill of fantasy. He wanted something real.

  Still, when Frank embraced Owen and kissed him, Owen was overwhelmed.

  They fell on the floor and made love, and like so many men making love that night, were careful, respectful of rules. They did not do what they might have wanted to. At one point Frank quietly pulled a rubber out of its plastic casement, threw the torn packet across the room, eased the thing over himself. It seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  After they finished, Owen dragged himself from where he lay on the bed up onto his elbows. “I’ve got to get home,” he said. “Rose is probably crazy with worry.”

  Frank lay stretched naked on the bed, his hands behind his neck, and Owen was suddenly astonished by the two shocks of black hair under his arms. They stared frankly at him, like an extra set of eyes.

  “What are you going to tell her?” Frank asked.

  Owen shook his head as he pulled on his pants.

  Frank got out of bed. At the kitchen table he scribbled something on a piece of note paper that said “P.&R. Contracting / Construction Company. Frank J. Picone, President.” “Here’s my work number,” he said. “Call me?”

  “All right,” said Owen.

  They kissed once, and then Frank let him out the door.

  Out on the street, the sky was surprisingly still. A few kids were milling around on the sidewalk. It was then that he realized he was only two blocks from Harte, which seemed to him suddenly funny. And as after all longed-for changes, he himself felt changed not in the least. The Harte School loomed as always. It had loomed for years before he knew it, and would loom afterwards, oblivious to his tenancy. But he was somehow able to walk past it tonight a little easier. If anything, he felt lightened of a burden. He had done it. He had made love—real love—with another man. It was no longer a hurdle he had to get over, and for that he was grateful. Besides that, he thought to himself calmly, my life will continue as it has unchanged. I will continue as I am. Unchanged.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was two-thirty in the morning. Had Rose gone to bed? He prayed that she had as he hailed a taxi, wondered what he’d say to her if she were still up. Sure enough, the light was on in the window when he got back. He tipped the driver too much, said hello to the doorman, headed up in the elevator. Rose was reading in the living room, in her bathrobe. She did not get up when he walked in.

  “Hello, honey,” Owen said.

  “Hello,” said Rose.

  He kissed her on the cheek. She did not raise her eyes from her book.

  “I was worried about you,” she said softly.

  Owen walked to the window, opened it. He did not say a word. Several beats of silence passed, and he knew Rose was counting them. She had her eyes closed tightly, her hands squeezed together; the book dropped to her lap. No book; no lies; no excuses.

  “I’m not going to ask any questions,” she said. “I don’t want to know anything. But I want you to promise me one thing. I want you to promise me that the next time you go out until two-thirty in the morning, you will call and warn me so I won’t worry myself to death wondering if you’re dead.”

  “You’re right, honey,” Owen said. “I’m sorry. I will.”

  After a few seconds Rose got up. “I’m going to bed,” she said.

  “Rose,” Owen said.

  She shook her head vigorously no, then disappeared into the bedroom, leaving him alone in the living room with the vast, silent expanse of New York outside the window. Unconsciously he cupped his genitals.

  Then it all came back—the panic, the turmoil, the sense of the world flying out of orbit—and they were bag people again, roaming the ruined streets of their lives, looking for scraps to live on or live in. Owen closed his eyes and mouth tight against screaming, and the scream burst inside him, ricocheted off the walls of his body. What had he done? Good God, what had he said? How could he have been so reckless, so obvious? Panic exploded in him. He remembered Rose’s expression, the pain in her eyes, the way she held her hands together on her lap, calmly, the fingers pulling at each other like cracking party favors. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her; but how could he, when he was the source and cause of all her pain? No matter how much empathy he felt, he was what was hurting her, and it could not be stopped, even by him.

  He sat down in her chair, still warm with her imprint, then stood up again immediately, like someone burned on a vinyl car seat on a scorching hot day. Then he walked to the window, pressed his face to it, and felt the cold air outside seep through, into his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. He breathed, watched the patterns his breath made on the glass.

  After that he stood quietly for a moment, waiting for the shaking to subside.

  In the bedroom, Rose lay stiff and knotted. He started to undress, looked down at her. But he had made up his mind and only wished he could find some way to save himself without killing her.

  In bed, he reached over from his side to touch her shoulder. A spasm racked her body at his touch, did not subside. She lay there shaking, but would not look at him.

  “Rose,” he said.

  She wept softly, did not answer, would not look at him.

  Spring had come late, and the ring of ice around Philip’s heart finally cracked. Then it was as if something had been freed in him, though against his will or better judgment. He woke up in the morning not feeling bad; he couldn’t help it. It seemed the small pleasures of the world, elusive all winter, were now conspiring to assault him, to beat misery out of him, and no matter how he tried he just could not hold them off. The sun on his face, waiting for the bus early in the morning, or the sight of the super’s wife taking her little girl to school, a Cabbage Patch lunchbox clutched in her hand—these things brought an unexpected, even unwanted smile to his face on breezy mornings in late March—small, unnoticeable to anyone but him, really, but enough to make him realize that he was perhaps recovering, that Eliot’s spectre had faded.

  He was less lonely than he had been—or, perhaps more accurately, he had learned how to be alone. He found himself looking forward to the prospect of a night in his apartment with the manuscript of Island Rhapsody and a foil container of sesame noodles. Other nights he saw Brad. They had dinner together, went to the movies. “All I want,” Brad said, as they leaned together against a wall of Boy Bar, “all I’ve ever wanted, is someone to settle down with,” and Philip agreed, both of them surprisingly unconscious of the extent to which they had settled with each other: Often they stood like this, staring into the dark, shoe-smelling depths of bars, scanning the room for faces, trying to pick out which ones they could fall in love with. But the faces were familiar by now and looked as tired of looking as theirs did. Perhaps these faces were mourning the old days of catch-as-catch-can, free love, guiltless ecstasy, the days when you could wink at someone, smile, and that would be enough: You’d be off together to a room somewhere to make love. Now monogamy was in fashion, but it had taken on the status of a safety tactic, an unappetizing but necessary catastrophe measure, like one of those World War II recipes for stretching precious rationed meat. “Find ten buddies and agree to fuck only with them,” Philip had read in a porn magazine early on in the crisis. Then ten was reduced to five, five to two. Men found themselves stranded in couples, reduced to a choice of living alone or continuing with a person who, if he was going to infect you at all, had already done it, so what was there to risk? Thus couples formed; fear became an indirect route to monogamy and, sometimes, to happiness.

  One Friday night, Philip and Brad took the subway uptown to Columbia, where the Gay Student Union was sponsoring a dance, and there they danced wildly, exuberantly, until sweat showed on their faces and their clothes smelled like tar. Afterwards, they ate cheeseburgers at an all-night diner on Broadway, and at six in the morning hiked the length of Manhattan to its very tip, marching through sleepy-eyed, hung-over Harlem, heedless of the dange
rs, until dawn found them at the fortlike Cloisters, triumphant as mountain climbers. After which they went separately home. As a matter of principle, as well as fear, they never slept with anyone, not even each other. They had never known that time when sex existed without the threat of disease yoked to it, and the fear of sickness was at the root of their consciousness—something of which they were seemingly unaware, yet which ruled them, formed their attitudes and determined their behavior.

  That Sunday they spent the early part of the afternoon at the movies, watching cartoons. Afterwards, when the sun came out, they wandered through the zoo in Central Park and the Museum of Natural History. Philip loved that afternoon, with its faint whiff of childhood. On springy rainy mornings, he would wake up to hear the drizzle of water splashing against a drain, and wish for nothing more than the coziness of being ten years old and home from school with a cold, watching hours of game shows on television—“Match Game,” “Wheel of Fortune,” “The Twenty Thousand Dollar Pyramid.” Around noon on those distant dizzy days, his mother would come home and prepare him chicken noodle soup for lunch, and then, after she left, as morning gave way to afternoon, the incomprehensible soap operas would come on, and fade, and it would be the time of old science-fiction movies like The Day the Earth Stood Still, Forbidden Planet, Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster, movies that, if you changed the channel constantly, you could watch simultaneously with Popeye, Tom and Jerry, Speed Racer, Gigantor, Kimba the Heroic White Lion. Lying in his bed on wet mornings in his own apartment, Philip could still recite to himself the exact sequence of shows. If only he had a color television, he’d think; if only he had a cold. And then he would remember that no cold could be just a cold for him anymore; no cold could be enjoyed or indulged. A cold meant anxious countings of how many times he’d been sick that year and a frantic prodding of the glands in his neck. And remembering this anxiety of colds, remembering the threat of pain, fast decline, and death, he’d bound out of bed, leap in the shower, and practically run to work.

  One afternoon he came home from work and found a letter from Eliot in his mailbox. At first he put it down on his desk and tried to ignore it, but finally he could not help himself, and he opened the envelope and read what was inside. The letter, sent from Paris, was on blue airmail stationery.